In Blood
by LovetheScottishAngel
Summary: Fifteen years after the disastrous premiere of 'Don Juan,' Christine decides that she wants to be with Erik and returns to the Opera Populaire to seek him out.  From there, she makes some decisions whose consequences are felt for the next twenty years…
1. Prologue: Setting the Stage

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Synopsis: Fifteen years after the disastrous premiere of **_**Don Juan**_**, Christine decides that she wants to be with Erik and returns to the Opera Populaire to seek him out. From there, she makes some decisions whose consequences are felt for the next twenty years…**

**Warnings: This story is based on the 2004 **_**Phantom**_** movie, though I've altered some elements of the story for my own purposes. It contains E/C (with a little bit of R/C), sexual content (both consensual and nonconsensual), some violence, and an extremely negative portrayal of Raoul. Christine is also portrayed in a rather negative light in certain situations. If any of these things are not much to your liking, please don't bother reading this. If you choose to ignore these warnings and read the story anyway and you don't like what you read, don't you dare flame me—after all, I'm going to the trouble to warn you of things you might not like.**

**Disclaimer: I own no version of the **_**Phantom**_** story. I only own my characterizations of featured canon characters, any and all original characters, and this story itself.**

**Author's Note: This prologue is extremely long because it covers a lot of events and a rather large passage of time. I apologize if you find it tedious to read so much… but if you can get through it, I think (that is, I hope) you'll find it worthwhile!**

**Now, without any further ado…**

**~ o ~**

_I shouldn't be doing this_, Christine deChagny thought to herself as she looked at her reflection in the armoire mirror. _Going to see a man with whom I've had no contact for the past fifteen years… and doing so behind my husband's back. And then, of course, there's the element of this plan that I deem to be the most stupid—I'm going to meet this man without even knowing if he's there…_

Christine knew that, in more than one way, she was taking a great risk by venturing to the Opera Populaire the way she intended to. Fifteen years had passed since the place she'd once called home had been mostly destroyed by a great fire, and in that time, she had hardly even dared to look at the once-glorious, still-not-restored, still-closed-to-the-public building whenever she had crossed its path.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying her best to block out the pain brought on by the memories she held of the last night she had been inside the Opera, the night it had gone up in flames. The night when she had broken two hearts, that which was her own and that which belonged to the dark, beautiful masked man whom she had so deeply loved and so greatly feared. The night her fear had overpowered her love and caused her to leave with Raoul, her childhood sweetheart, the man to whom she had been married and with whom she had had three children during the fifteen years that had passed.

To her very core, Christine knew that she had made the wrong decision in abandoning Erik and choosing a life with Raoul. She loved Raoul and always had, but she didn't love him the way she loved Erik; her love for Raoul was a gentle affection, while her love for Erik was a fiery passion.

_God willing, Erik will be at the Opera and I'll be able to tell him all these things_, she thought to herself. _And maybe, just maybe, Erik still loves me and will forgive me… and then, perhaps, we can begin a life together as we should have done all those years ago._

This hopeful thought in her head, Christine examined herself in the mirror one more time before deciding that now was the time to leave. Raoul was out of town on business and wouldn't return for two more days. That meant she would have two days to see if Erik had even returned to the Opera Populaire—and then, if he had, to convince him to take her back. Then, assuming that her plan had succeeded after those two days had passed, she would return to the Château deChagny, explain everything to Raoul in the most loving and gentle way possible as to lessen his hurt, pack her things, and then return to the man with whom she truly belonged.

She then walked out of the bedroom she had shared with Raoul during the course of their marriage, picking up the carpetbag in which she had packed necessities for the next two days and closing the door as she did.

"Jeanette, I am taking a trip for the next two days," the Vicomtesse informed her head maidservant when she arrived downstairs, pulling her cloak off of the nearby coat rack and putting it on. "I will return the same day as Monsieur le Vicomte. I trust you will do a good job of minding the house and caring for the children, as always."

"Of course I will, Madame," Jeanette replied, curtsying. "What shall I tell the children when they ask of your whereabouts?"

"Tell them what I have told you—I am taking a trip for the next two days and I will return the same day as Monsieur le Vicomte. You should also tell them that they needn't concern themselves with where I am; they only need to know that I am all right."

"Very well, Madame." Jeanette curtsied again.

Christine nodded, pulling the hood of her cloak onto her head and picking up her carpetbag. She then opened the door and began to walk out of the house. "À deux jours, Jeanette."

"À deux jours, Madame."

As Christine continued walking, she heard the door close behind her, and she stopped for a brief moment, her anxiety about what she intended to do becoming stronger.

By making this trip, she was doing many different things. She was taking the risk of believing that Erik would be at the Opera, that he would still love her, and that he would take her back. And if Erik accepted her, she would be breaking her marriage vows to Raoul that she would be his wife until death separated them, and quite possibly abandoning her own children, assuming that Erik would want them to leave Paris together.

Was the chance for happiness with the man she loved most worth the risk of hurting her own husband and children?

_Yes—yes, it's worth it_, she decided after a moment of contemplation. _Raoul may be hurt, but he'll understand; I'm sure there won't really be any hard feelings between us. And even if Erik and I no longer live in Paris, I'll still be allowed to see the children… Raoul will want me to stay in touch with them. I may have to travel back here on occasion in order to see them, but that will be fine. Everything will be fine… and after all, I don't even know if things will end up the way I want them to; Erik may not even be at the Opera, or if he is, he may not want anything to do with me. But either way, it will be all right; I needn't worry._

Her doubts now assuaged, Christine proceeded forward, walking through the streets of Paris in silence until she reached that building which, for so long, she had done her best to avoid at all costs—the Opera Populaire.

The doorways were boarded up, as she knew the doors had been kicked in or otherwise destroyed the night of the fire and those who hadn't yet restored the Opera didn't want anyone getting in, but she knew that such an obstacle wouldn't be a difficult one to overcome. She simply had to put forth some effort and remove at least a few boards from one of the doors.

Putting her carpetbag down, she went to a door whose boards appeared to be rather poorly nailed, grabbing one of them and pulling with all her might. After a few seconds, it gave way and came off. She then placed it down, proceeding to repeat the exercise with a few more boards before enough of them had been removed to where she could enter without making it obvious that someone had actually gotten in and instead making it look like the boards had simply fallen off due to wear-and-tear.

Christine once again picked up her carpet bag, getting down on her knees and placing the bag through the space she had created and setting it down. Then she went through the space herself with relative ease, arriving inside the Opera within a few short moments.

The building was completely pitch-black, as she had anticipated—after all, probably no one had come inside through the front entrance since the night of the fire. Because she had suspected such would be the case, however, she was prepared, and after opening her carpetbag and blindly feeling around the inside of it for a few moments, she located a well-oiled lantern which she had brought with her.

After she had pulled out the lantern and turned the knob, a light filled the front lobby of the Opera Populaire, allowing her to see it for the first time in fifteen years.

For a moment, she soaked in the burned sight, remembering how beautiful it had been the night of the New Year's Masquerade when Erik had arrived and presented his magnum opus, _Don Juan Triumphant_, to the partygoers, she and Raoul included. She remembered how dashing he had looked in his Red Death costume, how gracefully he had walked about and handled his sword when giving instructions… how pleading he had looked when he had looked at her…

A lump rose in her throat as she remembered how badly she had hurt him, but then she cleared her throat and shook her head.

_I'm wasting time_, she thought to herself firmly. _I need to get down to the catacombs as soon as possible… I don't need to stand here and think about the past. I need to keep going and think about the future which he and I can have if I get to see him again._

With this thought in her head, she pressed on, going through the lobby, the auditorium, and backstage, thinking about the positive memories which she held of each as opposed to the negative, until she arrived in her old dressing room. There she found what she was looking for, the thing that she hoped would help her get to Erik—the two-sided mirror which had a pathway to the catacombs on the side opposite the one she was standing on.

Taking a breath and stepping forward, she grasped the right side of the mirror and pulled it to the left with all her effort, grunting a little until the mirror finally slid over to the point where she could see the other side and fit through so she might get to that other side.

At the mere sight of the pathway by which she had first gone to the catacombs with Erik the night she had met him, her heart began to pound wildly. She was so close to her goal, and she felt both excited and anxious. And for what must have been the tenth time that evening, she fervently hoped that her trip wouldn't end up being all for naught.

Without a moment's hesitation, she stepped through to the other side of the mirror and continued on, walking faster than she previously had in her excitement that she was so close to reaching her goal and in her determination to actually reach that goal.

After a few minutes of walking, she reached the lake—the only thing which now separated her from the portion of the catacombs where Erik had made his home underneath the Opera for so many years. When she had crossed the lake fifteen years earlier, she had done so in a gondola. That, however, belonged to Erik and was evidently located at his home, for it was not where it had been tied whenever she had crossed the lake with him.

Christine sighed, feeling a bit disappointed; if she was going to see Erik again once she reached the other side of the lake, she certainly didn't want to do so when wet. It seemed that she had no other choice, however, for she didn't know of another way to his home than to cross the lake. And after all, she cared more about seeing Erik than about remaining dry, so after another moment, she jumped into the lake and discovered that it was only waist-deep for her.

_Well, at least I won't get entirely wet_, she thought to herself, and then she continued on, wading through the water toward Erik's home.

It took some time, but after that time had passed, she began to hear music playing some distance away, and her heart began to pound more than it had before. There was music… that meant that Erik had to be here. The fact that she could hear music also indicated that she was no longer too far away from the man she loved most.

With these thoughts in mind, she continued on, quickening her pace as best she could despite the fact that her legs were getting tired and the water was resisting her movements. And thanks to her increased speed, it was only a matter of minutes before she saw a gate which she immediately recognized.

She reached the gate, stopping and grasping one of the bars as she looked inside and saw that everything in Erik's home was exactly as she remembered it—candles were still lit all around, there was an organ, mirrors both covered and uncovered stood in the same places they had been before, the gondola was tied to the post that had been there for years, and the elegant peacock bed where she had slept the night she had met Erik still had deep red bedding and a black curtain surrounding it.

Only two things were different—a piano had, at some point during the fifteen years since she had last been in Erik's home, arrived… and the man who was sitting at the piano, though still very recognizable, was rather unsurprisingly older-looking than he had been the last time Christine had seen him.

At the sight of Erik, she thought her heart was going to explode right out of her chest, and she called out his name, her tone containing the exact amount of enthusiasm she felt.

"Erik! Erik!"

Upon hearing his name, Erik stopped playing the piano and looked over at the gate, and when he saw who was calling for him, he looked utterly astonished as he rose from his seat.

"Christine?" he inquired in a rather incredulous tone, and she noted that his voice sounded exactly as it had fifteen years before—deep, musical, and beautiful.

"Yes, yes, it's me!" A lump rose in her throat and tears of indescribable happiness began to well in her eyes. "Oh, Erik!"

"Christine…" Keeping his surprised expression focused on her, he walked over to the lever which controlled the gate and pulled it, causing the gate to ascend. "What… I…"

When the gate had been raised enough, Christine immediately came forward, going toward him as quickly as her legs and the water would allow. Her face, which he deemed to be as heartrendingly beautiful as it had been the last the time he had seen her all those years ago, was shining with an excitement that he didn't understand. She had made her choice and he hadn't been it; she had rejected him. Why, then, did she seem so happy to see him?

"Erik…" she breathed as she finally reached him, placing her carpetbag down and looking up at him. "Erik, I have to tell you…"

He arched his visible eyebrow at her. "Tell me what, Christine?"

She took a few breaths that made it appear as if she was about to say something each time, but after a few moments, she didn't and instead came forward, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.

At this unexpected action, Erik was completely lost as to what to do. The woman he loved, the woman he hadn't seen for fifteen years, the woman who had broken his heart, was here, evidently excited to see him and kissing him passionately. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could hear it thrumming in his ears, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he was afraid that she might suddenly come to her senses and stop kissing him if he did so, so he simply had his arms remain at his side, his hands trembling.

For a few moments more, their lips remained pressed together, but then she gently pulled away, opening her eyes and looking up at him. Then he, too, opened his eyes and looked back at her, looking halfway stunned and halfway dazed.

"Erik…" She took a deep breath as she reached out and tucked a loose lock of his graying-but-still-mostly-black hair behind his ear, then gently stroked the unmasked, undeformed side of his face. "I made a terrible mistake all those years ago. I loved you so much, but I was so afraid… I was no longer afraid of you, really, but I was afraid of going with you and being chased by that mob which was coming after you and of getting hurt, and so I chose Raoul because I knew that I would always be safe with him. I knew I loved you more than Raoul and was making a mistake by choosing to go with him, but my fear of being in some kind of danger with you made me go with him instead. And I've regretted my decision from the moment I left with Raoul on the gondola. It's not that I don't love Raoul; I do, and I've been happy being his wife and having children with him. But I don't love him the way I love you… and I know that the happiness I've had with him is nothing compared to the happiness I would have had with you."

_What is she saying?_ he thought to himself as he looked at her for a few moments, his expression looking somewhat puzzled. _Is she saying she no longer wants to be with deChagny; is she saying… that she wants to be with me?_

At the prospect of finally winning Christine for his own despite their fifteen-year estrangement, his heart swelled, and he felt excitement pulsing through his veins.

That excitement didn't last long, however; it quickly turned into fear—fear of repeating the past, when he had been so sure that she was his only to lose her, when his heart had shattered into millions of tiny pieces, when it had taken so long to even begin to heal from the pain.

_I can't go through that again_, he then thought to himself. _If I allow myself the possibility of getting hurt like I already have once more, I know I won't be able to recover again. And after all, I don't even know if she's being honest… she may just be leading deChagny to me so that I might finally be imprisoned for the crimes I committed years ago. And I certainly can't let that happen._

With these thoughts in his mind, his face suddenly hardened and he turned away from her.

"I don't know exactly why you've come here, Christine, but I think it would be best for both of us if you simply left now. Go back to your husband and children; it is where you belong."

This statement puzzled her, and the frown which came to her face, which he didn't see, expressed that.

"I belong with you, Erik—and I belong _to_ you. I want to be with you and no one else; you are the one with whom I want to spend the remainder of my life."

"Christine, I will not let you fool me into thinking you care for me the way you are claiming to. You already did that once before and it took me years to stop being crippled from the pain your rejection caused me." He paused for a moment, and then he began to walk away from her. "Go home."

She took a deep breath and began following him. "No. I will not let this go that easily. I have already made up my mind and your telling me to leave isn't going to make me change it."

"Nor will _my_ mind be changed easily, madame—and I assure you that I am far more stubborn than you are. So go."

"You already made me go once before—and I had chosen to stay with you then, too. I thought I made that clear when I kissed you."

"You were only choosing to stay with me because I threatened to kill your fiancé if you did not," he snarled, turning on his heel and facing her. "You had already made your choice—you had already taken part in a plot to trap me so that you would be free of me. If you had truly cared for me the way you say you did, you would not have done such a thing—and even if you had done that, later on you would not have left with Raoul even though I had told you to. You would have stayed with me."

"I told you my reason for leaving then," she said softly. "I was afraid of being endangered by the mob."

He sighed, his expression softening as he did, before daring to reach out and lightly stroke the side of her face. "You should have known that I never would have let any harm come to you."

She reached out and stroked the unmasked, undeformed side of his face in turn. "Yet another mistake I made. But I have learned my lesson, Erik, and I want to spend the rest of my life apologizing for that mistake and all the others I made fifteen years ago. Please allow me that privilege."

For a moment, Erik simply looked at her, and then he shook his head. "I do not want to spend the rest of my life listening to you apologize for what you did in the past."

Christine took this to mean that he did not want to be with her, and the hurt which suddenly filled her heart made a lump rise in her throat. Her efforts had been for naught; she had resolved to leave behind the life she had been building for herself for the past fifteen years only to be rejected by the one for whom she had made that resolution. Now she was sure that she was feeling how he must have felt when she had left him behind the last time they had encountered each other.

Taking a deep breath in order to prevent her emotions from getting the best of her, she looked down so that he might not see that she was fighting back tears; she didn't want him to feel guilt for choosing not to be with her the way she had when she had left him.

He gently grasped her chin then, tilting her face upwards so that her brown eyes met his grey-green ones.

"What I meant," he said softly, "is that I do not want to hear an apology every day for the rest of my life. I instead want us to make up for lost time… every day for the rest of my life."

At the meaning behind his words, her heart became filled with joy, and the tears which began to roll down her cheeks were tears of happiness. And then, without even a moment's hesitation, they threw their arms around each other, beginning to kiss passionately.

The time that passed as they continued kissing seemed to be an eternity, but in truth, it was only about a minute. And once that minute had passed, he pulled away from her, his eyes sparkling in a way that she had never seen before.

"I love you, Christine," he declared to her, a smile coming to his face as he did. "I love you, I always have loved you, and I always will love you."

Smiling a smile which was as wide as his, she mirrored his words—"And I love you, Erik. I love you, I always have loved you, and I always will love you."

They then began kissing again, holding each other tightly as they did, their tongues doing a delightful tango. After a few moments, Christine felt something hard begin to press against her belly, and she moaned, for she knew that it was his desire for her.

He pulled away from her once more, his eyes sparkling even more than they had after he had stopped the first kiss. His breathing was heavy and his face looked slightly flushed.

"Christine… I…"

When his voice trailed off, she smiled slightly, and then she untied her cloak, allowing it to drop to the floor. Then she did something which he hadn't anticipated she would do—reached down and touched him.

"Ohh," he moaned, slowly closing his eyes. "You probably shouldn't do that, my dear…"

"Why not?" she inquired with a slightly mischievous tone, and then she began to knead him through his trousers, causing him to groan.

"Because…" He bit his lip momentarily, which she knew he was doing in order to try and keep from letting her know how good it felt to him. "Because I just might end up taking you to bed if you continue."

She moved her hand away from his desire, then softly kissed a spot on his neck, causing him to shiver.

"Take me," she whispered.

He opened his eyes, looking down at her and seeing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. So without any more hesitation, he scooped her up in his arms, carrying her bridal style toward his bed before gently placing her down.

After looking down at her momentarily, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. Then he shifted his focus to her feet, removing her shoes and stockings before placing kisses on her now-bare legs as he stepped out of his own shoes and removed his socks.

She then took hold of his shoulders, pulling him down so that he was atop her on the bed and grabbing the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up so that it became untucked from his trousers and then so that she could pull it over his head and remove it. He finished it the rest of the way, completely removing it and dropping it onto the floor.

They kissed for several moments while she ran her hands all along his chest and back, feeling the scars that he had received in his time as the main feature at a Gypsy circus and wishing that she had been there when he had been young in order to prevent him from ever getting them. But she hadn't been, so she instead had to be grateful that he had escaped and that they had been able to meet.

"Here," she then said, and without any warning, she reached up and made to remove his mask.

Before she was able to do so, however, he grasped her wrist and shook his head fervently. "No."

"Don't worry," she said softly, managing to slip her wrist out of his grip. "It makes no difference to me…"

Then she removed his mask before he was able to make any further protests, and upon feeling the air strike his bare face, his chest tightened and he bowed his head so she wouldn't see him. He was so ashamed at his appearance, his deformity—the reason why he had been so isolated from the world the vast majority of his life. A man with his face was unworthy of having a woman as lovely as Christine and he knew it.

"Come here," she said gently, taking his face in her hands and making to tilt it upwards so that she could look at him. "Erik, let me see you."

"No," his whispered in response, his voice thick, and he kept his head down so she couldn't see his ugliness. "No, I… I don't want you to look. Please let me put my mask back on."

"It's not necessary for you to do that," she replied firmly, pressing her hands against his face in a gentle-yet-insistent manner. "Look at me, Erik. I want all of you… I want to see all of you."

No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't deny her request—after all, she was Christine; he could deny her nothing. And so, with a deep breath, he allowed her to tilt his face upwards so that she could see the entirety of his unmasked face.

She looked at him in silence for several moments, her heart aching at the pain and embarrassment which showed itself so clearly in his eyes.

"It's all right," she murmured, moving one of her hands so that she began gently stroking his malformed cheek, feeling the warm ridges of irregular skin underneath her fingers.

Then, after she'd done this for several moments, she drew him down so that their faces were closer and softly placed kisses all over his deformity, running her fingers through his hair as she did so.

When she had finished her kissing, she looked into his eyes and said in the most sincere tone he had ever heard anyone use, "I love you, Erik. I love you so much."

Tears welled in his eyes and a faint smile came to his face as he whispered, "And I love you, Christine."

And then, without any more hesitation, they began passionately kissing once more, their tongues tangling as they held each other close.

Once they had kissed for several more moments, he suddenly broke their kiss and looked down at her, and she noticed that there was an anxious expression on his face.

"What is it?" she inquired, lightly brushing a hand through his hair.

"Well, I…" He bit his lip in a gesture of embarrassment. "I've never…"

She sat up and looked rather surprised. "You're fifty years old… and you've never had a woman?"

At this, his face turned red and he shook his head. "I—I've been to brothels a few times with the intention of doing so, but I always ended up backing out whenever I had gone to the bedroom with the woman I'd chosen. I really wanted to experience what it was like, but… I never wanted to experience it like that. I didn't want my first experience to be with some woman who gave herself to men she didn't even know… I wanted it to be with a woman who knew my name, who understood me, who wanted to be with me for reasons other than money. I wanted it to be with a woman who cared about me and who I cared about in turn."

She smiled at him and kissed him softly. "I love that reasoning, Erik. It's so logical… so beautiful. And now you will be able to get what you want…"

They began kissing again, and after several moments, he somewhat tentatively slid his hands up her body until they came to her breasts. He then began massaging them through the material of her dress, deepening their kiss.

She let out a sigh of ecstasy through their kiss, wrapping one leg around him and arching her back slightly. After a few more moments of massaging her breasts, he moved his hands toward the buttons of her dress, beginning to undo them.

When he had finished unbuttoning her dress, he grabbed the top of it, sliding it off her shoulders and down her body until he had removed it, discarding it on the floor with their shoes and his shirt.

At that point, she rolled over so that she was lying on her stomach, allowing him access to the laces of her corset. He got on top of her, straddling her from behind and causing her to feel his desire for her pressed against her bottom. Then, placing soft kisses on her bare shoulders, he began unlacing her corset.

Once he had completely unlaced her corset, she turned over and sat up once again, and they removed her corset together. They wrapped their arms around each other and pressed themselves together as best they could while still sitting up, allowing him to feel her naked breasts against his chest.

"Here, lie back," he said softly to her after a few moments of kissing, placing his hands on her bare shoulders and having her lie back, and he straddled her once again, massaging her breasts as he had before and additionally toying with her nipples.

She evidently liked this new action, for she shivered and let out a rather lusty moan. "Oh, Erik!"

This reaction inspired him to do something else involving her nipples, and with a rather sneaky smile on his face, he lowered himself slightly and began sucking on one of her breasts, closing his mouth over the nipple while toying with her other nipple. She let out a soft gasp, the heat between her thighs increasing as she wrapped both her legs around him.

He switched breasts then, beginning to suck the nipple he had previously been toying with and toying with the nipple he had previously been sucking.

"Mmm," she sighed, giving the barest shiver. "Erik, that feels so good…"

For a few moments, he continued what he was doing, but then he moved his mouth away from her breasts, that sneaky smile coming back to his face, and began kissing down her body, moving from her breasts to her stomach. Then he moved farther down to her ankles and began kissing upward, moving from her calves to her thighs and moving her underskirt up in order to expose new skin for him to kiss.

Much to her surprise, he didn't stop when he got to her thighs, and a few moments later, she felt him press a deep kiss against the center of her desire, and she let out a low, soft moan.

"Do you like that, my dear?" he inquired, pressing another kiss there.

"Yes," she whispered, shivering a bit. "Don't stop, Erik…"

For a few moments more, he continued kissing the petals of her womanhood, but then he decided that he wanted to pleasure her further and began running his tongue along her folds.

She let out a cry at the sensation, arching her back and shuddering. "_Erik!_"

He spent a few more moments exploring the center of her desire with his mouth, and then pulled away, moving back up and beginning to kiss her once again. She wrapped one arm around his neck and placed her other hand down and inside his trousers, beginning to massage his manhood with nothing in between it and her hand.

"Ahhh," he groaned, beginning to press hard kisses to her neck, and she felt him become harder in her hand. "Christine…"

They then began kissing passionately, and she grabbed the waistline of his trousers while he grabbed the waistline of her underskirt. Then they removed their respective lower garments from each other, discarding them and then pressing against each other. They both moaned at the ecstasy of feeling skin on skin with nothing in the way, but Erik especially did, having never experienced that sensation before.

"Oh… oh, Christine…" he breathed, wrapping his arms around her tightly and kissing her all over her face, neck, and shoulders.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and began kissing him deeply. "Take me, my love. I want to be yours."

A moment passed in which they simply kissed passionately, but then he took a deep breath and placed himself inside of her, softly groaning at the feeling of being inside her warm, moist depths. When he could go no further, they kissed deeply and held each other tightly for several moments.

Once these several moments had gone by, he began moving within her, slowly thrusting in and out and shuddering at the indescribable ecstasy which he felt coursing through his veins. She sighed and lifted herself up slightly, tenderly brushing her cheek against his deformed one and running her hands up and down his back.

It didn't take long before he began to come close to his release, and he moaned rather loudly. "Christine…"

"I know," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him softly. "I feel it. Don't stop…"

He did as she said and continued thrusting, the ecstasy in his body becoming greater and greater with each new movement. He heard her begin to pant with pleasure, telling him that she was coming close to her own end.

Then, all of a sudden, he felt as if his body was exploding with the most incredible feeling it had ever felt, and he cried out as he held her tightly and poured himself inside of her. Just bare seconds later, she let out a long, soft moan and shivered, holding him tightly in turn as she experienced her release.

For some time, there was nothing but a peaceful silence as they held onto each other, he resting his head on her breast while she rested her hands on his back. Then, however, he lifted his head and kissed her, rolling onto his back and removing himself from her. She adjusted her position as well, lying slightly atop him and now resting her head on his chest. He placed a hand on her arm while running the fingers of his other hand through her curls.

She pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. "How is this going to work?"

"What do you mean?" he inquired, glancing down at her.

"I mean… how are we going to go about starting our life together? We can't just go off together, even though that would be nice. I want to say goodbye to my children… we need to make travel arrangements, since I'm sure you'd really rather not stay in Paris… Raoul and I need to begin the process of divorcing so you and I can get married…"

"Get married?" he echoed, sounding rather surprised. "You… you want to marry me?"

At this, she chuckled and kissed his shoulder again. "Of course. Why wouldn't I? I love you, after all, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

For a moment, he looked down at her with a completely taken aback expression, but then he smiled widely and kissed her hard.

"Oh, Christine… I think you have no idea how happy you've made me by saying that. But, of course, I think our engagement should be a little more official than that, don't you? I need to ask you to be my wife by way of getting down on one knee and presenting you with a ring and actually asking you."

"Well, I suppose going about it in the traditional fashion would be nice," she said, smiling and resting her head on his chest once more.

He cleared his throat. "Does deChagny know you're here with me?"

"No. He went out of town a few days ago and won't be back for two more days."

There was a momentary silence, and then came a soft "Oh."

She looked up at him and saw that he looked rather disappointed. "What's the matter?"

"I…" He let out a soft sigh. "I thought he knew your plans; I thought you had already told him everything before coming here."

"Don't worry," she reassured him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "He will know… and I'm quite certain that he won't be angry. He may be hurt, but I think he'll understand. Everything will be all right."

For a moment, he looked at her, feeling anxious, but then the love clearly sparkling in her eyes reassured him, and so he smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "All right."

"But for now, my love, I think you and I both need to rest," she said, wrapping an arm around him and bringing herself closer to him. "We'll have all day tomorrow to make our plans."

"Very well," he replied, kissing her tenderly. "Good night, my beautiful Christine. Sleep well."

"And you, too, my sweet Erik. Good night."

And with that, all grew silent, and they fell asleep while holding onto each other, each one dreaming of the future which they intended to have with the other.

~ o ~

"Erik… Erik, wake up, my love. It's morning…"

Erik sighed slightly, stirring and rubbing his eyes and opening them to see the most beautiful woman in the world sitting naked before him and beaming at him. _His_ woman. His Christine.

Her smile became even wider as she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "Good morning."

"Good morning to you," he replied, placing his hands on her arms and pulling her down so that she was now lying down next to him. He then pressed an eager kiss to her lips, holding her close to him.

She chuckled a little when he finally chose to pull away from her. "You're in a very good mood this morning."

"Well, I have every reason to be, do I not?" he inquired of her, tucking a strand of her curls behind her ear and smiling at her. "For the first time in my life, I am completely and indescribably happy."

"I'm glad I've allowed that to happen for you," she said softly, smiling back at him and stroking his deformed cheek for a moment. And then, without another moment of hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed him.

That one kiss was not the only one they shared; they kept kissing each other, and he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his body against hers, allowing her to feel his awakened desire for her.

Upon feeling this, she moaned softly, but then she broke their kiss. "No, my dear—not now. If we start now, I fear that we'll stay in bed all day."

"And what would be wrong with that, may I ask?" he inquired, smiling mischievously and holding her even closer as he pressed a kiss to her neck.

"If we stay in bed all day, we'll make love all day. And if we make love all day, we'll never make plans for our future."

"Hmm," he murmured. "I suppose that would be a problem. Very well, then."

"Don't worry," she reassured him, kissing him. "We have the whole rest of our lives to make love together. So come on—let's get up, have breakfast, and start planning."

"Oh," he said, frowning a bit. "I generally don't eat breakfast, as a matter of fact, so I don't have any of the traditional breakfast food. If you'd like to have breakfast, however, I'll certainly go out and find something suitable."

"Let's do this," she suggested, sitting up. "I'll go and find something for us to eat… and in the meantime, how about you begin packing? After all, we'll be leaving rather soon, I'm sure, and I think we should only be focused on our plans and not packing whenever we're planning."

"All right; that's a good idea," he agreed, nodding as he sat up next to her. He lightly took hold of her chin and began pulling her face toward his. "One more kiss before we begin, though…"

She smiled, and then they shared a soft, simple kiss.

"Now let's go," he continued when the kiss ended, gently stroking her cheek for a moment before moving out of bed and beginning to locate some fresh clothes to change into.

For a moment during which he was doing that, she remained in bed and observed him, feeling happy at the simple pleasure that came from observing his always-graceful movements. Such easy contentment had never happened with Raoul; it seemed that he had always had to do something particularly special to make her feel the unquestionable love which she felt in that moment.

_Thank You, God, for allowing him to be here so I would find him again so easily_, she silently prayed. _Thank You for giving him some of the mercy which is so infinite with You and having him take me back… thank You for allowing us to finally be together._

Once she had prayed this prayer, she watched him for a moment more, and then she rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her body and walking over to the area where she had left her carpetbag the night before. She opened it and dug through it until she found a clean dress to wear, pulling it out and then returning to the bedroom in order to dress.

After dressing, she walked over to Erik, who was putting on his shoes.

"I'm going now," she announced, running a hand through his hair momentarily. "Is there something in particular you'd like me to buy for us to eat?"

He looked up at her and smiled, shrugging. "Whatever you want will be fine with me."

"Very well," she replied, leaning down and giving him a kiss. "I'll see what I can find."

"Don't be long," he said softly, taking her hand and kissing it.

She kissed him again, squeezed his hand, and then turned and walked away, picking up her nearby cloak and putting it on before getting aboard the gondola and rowing away.

Ten minutes then proceeded to pass before she made it back to the front of the Opera, where she had entered the night before, and began walking toward the market.

While walking, she pondered upon what Erik would possibly like to eat. It was true that he had said he would eat whatever she picked, but she wanted to get something that she was certain he would want. The difficulty in making this choice, however, came with the fact that she had never seen him eat before—not breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

_Perhaps he would like some fruit_, she thought to herself. _But what kind of fruit would he like…?_

As she thought about the various fruits that she herself liked that would be in season that time of year, she arrived at the portion of the market where the fruit vendors were.

"Bonjour, madame," the fruit vendor whose table she first approached greeted her, smiling and inclining his head slightly. "What could I get for you today?"

"I'm not sure," she said in response, smiling back at him. "What is something that has been a popular sell as of late?"

"Not too long ago, I received a shipment of passion fruit from South America," he said, picking up a piece of fruit which had a purple skin on it that she had never seen before. "Those who have purchased it from me have been very satisfied. I have yet to try it myself, but my customers tell me that it is quite delicious. I should tell you, however, that if you are going to try it, you need to remove the skin first."

"Hmm," she murmured, taking it from the man and examining it for a moment. "I think I might like to try this… how much does it cost?"

"Just one franc, madame."

She opened the purse she had brought with her and pulled out a franc, handing it to him. He took it from her, and then he watched as she peeled the skin off the passion fruit and looked at it momentarily before taking a bite of it.

To her pleasure, the man's customers who had liked the fruit had been accurate in their description of it, for it was indeed delicious. It contained a taste both sweet and sour and was delightfully soft. She enjoyed it immensely.

Without any hesitation whatsoever, she proceeded to eat the remainder of the fruit within about two minutes, and when she had finished, she looked up at the man, who was looking at her in a rather expectant fashion.

"Did you enjoy it, madame?" he inquired.

"Absolutely," she breathed, smiling at him rather widely. She looked down at the passion fruit which remained on his table. "I'll take all the rest of them which you have there."

"Very well," he replied with a chuckle, picking up a burlap sack which was behind him and placing every piece of passion fruit on the table inside it. Then he handed it to her. "That will be thirty francs more, if you please."

She pulled the requested amount out of her purse, handing it to him and nodding. "Thank you very much, monsieur."

"And thank you, madame. Bonne journée."

Without another word, she turned around and began to head back to the Opera, having decided that she and Erik would have a breakfast consisting only of passion fruit—she was certain that he would like it as much as she did.

_Passion fruit_, she thought to herself, a smile coming to her face. _I suppose that is rather the perfect fruit to have with the one you love…_

Then, as she continued walking, a carriage suddenly went by her rather quickly, and on the door there was a design which she knew all too well—the crest of the deChagny family.

Her eyes widened in alarm, as there was only one carriage which Raoul owned that had the family crest on it, and that was the carriage in which he had ridden to go out of town. That meant he had returned to Paris a day early!

At this, she realized that she had to make it back to the Château deChagny as quickly as possible, so she began to run back towards the Opera, making her way back inside the way she had entered the night before and making it back to the catacombs, to Erik's home, in about half the time it had taken her to leave it earlier that morning.

"Raoul's back a day early!" she exclaimed to Erik the moment she arrived on the shore of the lake, practically jumping out of the gondola and handing the burlap sack of passion fruit to him. She then rushed to the bedroom as quickly as possible while he followed her. "While I was walking back here, his carriage drove by me… I don't know why he's back; he wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow… but now he's already arrived home and he knows I'm not there!"

"I must have missed the part where that's an issue," he finally spoke as she finished, frowning a bit.

She sighed and turned to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I came here last night because I knew that he wouldn't be around to see me leave and wonder where I was going… and I intended to be back there tomorrow morning because whenever he leaves town, he normally returns in the afternoon. My intention was for him to not know that I had ever been gone—at least, not until I had told him what was going to happen. But now he's there and I'm not…"

"Well, I suppose that means you'll be able to tell him of our plans sooner."

"That's part of the problem, though," she responded, sighing again. "We haven't _made_ our plans. We were supposed to make them when I had come back and we had eaten. But now I need to leave…"

"Don't worry about it," he reassured her, placing his hands on her shoulders as she had done to him. "We'll simply do this—meet me at the train station at three o'clock in the afternoon tomorrow. From there, we'll decide where we would first like to travel and board the next train headed toward that destination. We can just improvise for a while."

"I suppose that's what we'll have to do, isn't it?" she murmured, resting her hands atop his arms for a moment. "All right."

"All right," he replied, smiling and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Now get your things together and I'll take you across the lake."

She nodded and turned away from him, gathering the clothes she had worn the night before and placing them back in her carpet bag. While she did so, he reached inside the burlap sack of passion fruit and pulled out one.

"Passion fruit," she informed him when she saw that he was examining it with a somewhat puzzled expression. "It's from South America. It's very good."

"Hmm," he murmured, nodding and making to take a bite out of it.

"No, you don't eat it like that," she interrupted. "You have to peel the skin first."

"Oh," he said, and then he peeled the skin before taking a bite. Then, as he chewed it, he smiled, looked down at her, and nodded.

"That bag contains all the ones the vendor had," she said, nodding towards the sack. "There are thirty—or, actually, twenty-nine, seeing as how you just ate one."

"I take it they're only in season during this time of year?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Well, then we'll have to get as many as we can get our hands on whenever they're available," he said, smiling down at her. "They're wonderful."

She smiled back at him, then closed her carpet bag and rose to her feet. "I'm ready to go now."

"Very well," he replied, wrapping an arm around her waist and walking over to the gondola alongside her. Then he took her hand, pressed a kiss to it, and helped her into the gondola and into a sitting position.

"So," he continued as he began rowing the gondola away from the shore, looking down at her and smiling. "What kind of wedding would you prefer to have? Would you like to have a church wedding?"

"Aren't you an atheist?" she inquired, frowning a bit. "Why would you agree to have a church wedding if you are an atheist?"

"I'm not as much of an atheist as I used to be," he replied, briefly glancing towards the direction in which he was rowing before turning his attention back to her. "I believe in God, but only on certain occasions, really."

"Like what?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows in interest. "What's an occasion where you believe?"

"Well," he said, smiling at her, "I surely believe in Him right now. And how could I not? You have returned to me and you're going to be mine at last."

"You believe in Him when something which is in your favor occurs, then."

"Not only then, but yes, I do." He paused as they reached the other side of the lake, at which point he stepped out of the gondola. "I'll have to tell you the other instances in which I believe in Him at a later time… for now, you must go."

"But aren't you going to walk me to the mirror?" she asked as he helped her rise and step out of the gondola.

He sighed and shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. The longer you are around me right now, the more I am tempted to not let you go back to deChagny at all, the more I am tempted to have us simply leave today and without any further delay."

She nodded in understanding, but she couldn't help but feel somewhat disappointed that she had to say goodbye right then—for now, at least.

"I will see you tomorrow," he said to her then, evidently seeing that she wasn't entirely happy with what was happening now, and took one of her hands, clasping it between both of his. "Three o'clock at the train station."

"I've already begun counting down the hours until that time comes," she said, lifting his hands to her lips and placing a kiss on each of them.

"And I have already begun to count the seconds," he replied, kissing the hand which was between his in turn. "I love you, Christine… so very, very much."

She smiled, leaning forward and kissing her masked lover. "And I love you, Erik—with all my heart, I love you."

The most beautiful smile she had ever seen on anyone came to his face. "Now go. I will see you at the station."

Once the two had shared one final kiss, Christine turned away, picking up her carpetbag and beginning to walk toward the two-sided mirror which allowed her access to his world. Erik watched her go, and when she was out of sight, he began to row the gondola back toward the place which would not be his home for much longer.

Although she had been worried about the fact that she would arrive at the Château deChagny after Raoul already had, and with a carpetbag, which would indicate that she had been somewhere else the previous night, she took her time in exiting the Opera. After all, it wasn't as if it would be very long before Raoul learned the truth of what had already happened and was going to happen. She wasn't concerned, however; instead, she was happy. For the past fifteen years, she had denied herself of the greatest happiness she had ever known, but now she was finally going to get it. And she was certain that Raoul would, of course, be hurt, but that he would accept her decision and let her go without very much of a fight. For as long as she had known him, Raoul had always placed the happiness of others before his own happiness.

_It will hurt to see the pain I'm inevitably going to cause him_, she thought to herself, letting out a slight sigh. _After all, he is my husband of fifteen years and the father of my children… and I may not love him nearly as much as I love Erik, but I do indeed love him. But I know he will heal in time… he will move on and marry a woman who will love him the way I love Erik, a woman who will be a good stepmother to the children._

Half an hour later, her contemplative journey back toward the place which she intended to permanently leave the next day had ended; she had returned to the Château deChagny. She opened the door and was immediately greeted by those who had surrounded her for at least some portion of the fifteen years when she had been separated from Erik.

"Oh, hello, Mama!" Vivienne, the oldest deChagny child, a girl of fourteen, said happily, coming forward and kissing the Vicomtesse on the cheek. "I'm so glad you've returned; Jeanette said you weren't coming back until tomorrow!"

"Well, I decided to come back a day early," Christine replied, kissing her daughter's cheek in turn. "I missed you and your siblings very much."

"I missed you, too, Mama," Jacques, who was twelve, informed Christine, getting onto his toes in order to follow his older sister's example and kiss his mother on the cheek.

"But I missed you most!" ten-year-old Claude, who was always in competition against the older deChagny boy, insisted, kissing Christine on the cheek like his siblings had.

"No, you didn't!" Jacques, who was well-aware of the unending contest which Claude had created between the two of them, retorted. "I missed her more."

Vivienne sighed. "Oh, boys, stop this."

"Come off it, Jacques!" Claude exclaimed, pushing his older brother slightly. "Everyone knows that I always miss Mama more than you do whenever she's away."

"Well, if you miss her so much whenever she's gone, then why do you behave so badly?" Jacques asked, using sarcasm—an art he had already mastered in his short life.

Claude had nothing to say to that, but he continued fighting back, and after a few short moments, the slight pushing became rough pushing and the rough pushing became punching.

Once the punching began, Vivienne and Christine did their best to stop the brothers from fighting before someone got hurt, but it was to no avail; they each managed to fight off the two who sought to restrain them and continue to fight each other.

"That's enough out of you two, Jacques, Claude!" a new voice suddenly cut in after a few moments, and Raoul appeared, managing to separate the two despite their efforts to struggle out of his grip. "What have I told you two about fighting?"

"Don't do it," the boys replied unanimously, looking as children in trouble typically do with their bowed heads and their hands folded behind their backs.

"Indeed. And since you just did that, I want both of you to go to your own room and sit on your bed with the door closed until I tell you that you may come out. You are _going_ to learn to behave. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Papa," the brothers said, once again speaking at the same time, then turned and went upstairs. After a few moments, two doors were closed, and then there was silence.

"Well, I'm glad that's over—for now, anyway," Raoul said with a relieved sigh, turning and clasping his hands together as he looked at his wife. "Hello, my dear."

"Hello," Christine replied, smiling as he came forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "How was your trip?"

"Quite good. I missed you, though," he informed her, smiling back and taking her hand, kissing the knuckles.

"I missed you, too," she said, and she said it with at least some sincerity. "You're back early; I didn't expect you until tomorrow."

"My business out of town finished earlier than I thought it would," he explained. "I did briefly consider staying an extra day and perhaps doing something more interesting than what I had been doing while I was there, but then I decided that I would instead come home and surprise you."

She smiled in a rather nervous fashion as she thought about how alarmed she had been when his carriage had passed by her earlier. "Well, you certainly did that."

He smiled back at her, taking her hand and squeezing it. "I'm glad. And now come—I have something upstairs which I would like you to see."

"All right," she agreed, following him up the stairs and into their bedroom, where his still-unpacked suitcases were lying on the bed.

"This was at a local jewelry store; it had some of the finest jewelry I've ever seen—some of it ever finer than what can be found here in Paris," he said as he opened one of the suitcases, removing a thin, rectangular velvet box from it. He turned to her and opened it, revealing a pearl necklace. "I remembered how much you adore pearls and I knew it was the most beautiful pearl necklace I'd seen anywhere, so I thought I would get it for you."

"Oh, Raoul," she sighed, placing a hand on her throat for a moment in a gesture of surprise. "It really is lovely."

"You own it now, then," he informed her, removing the necklace from the box, walking behind her, and clasping it together at the back of her neck. Then he moved her hair so that the necklace was no longer over it, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her head as he did.

"How does it look?" she inquired, turning and facing him so that he could see how it looked on her. "It's too short for me to be able to see any part of it on me."

"It looks beautiful on you, of course," he said with a smile. "Your beauty reflects onto it and makes it even more beautiful than it is just by itself."

And then, without another word from either of them, he leaned forward and kissed her more deeply than he had in at least two years, causing her to feel both surprised and slightly weak-kneed.

When he broke their kiss, he pulled her into a warm embrace and held her close. "I really did miss you, Christine. I wish you had been able to take this trip with me."

She heard the sincerity in his tone, and it caused a lump of guilt for the betrayal she intended to do and had already done against him to rise in her throat.

Before she had a chance to say anything in response, he pulled away from her slightly, resting his hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes. A slight smile was on his face.

"Enough about me, though. Jeanette tells me you weren't here last night… she says you told her that you would be taking a trip last night, today, and tomorrow morning. Where did you go?"

The lump in her throat rose even more, for she knew that she wasn't going to tell him the truth in this moment, and she swallowed it back down with effort. "I just went to a hotel for the night. I wanted to get out of the house for a little while and have some time to myself."

"You obviously came back early, though."

"I missed the children," she lied, feeling like a terrible mother, for in her time with Erik, she hadn't missed her children—her children, whom she was going to basically abandon when she left with Erik the next day. "So I decided to come back."

"Ah. Did you enjoy your time away when you had it, though?"

"Oh, absolutely," she replied, nodding fervently while feeling the guilt continue to pile up within her. "It was wonderful."

_Yes… being unfaithful to you was the most enjoyable experience I've had in a while_, she then thought to herself rather miserably.

"Well, I'm glad," he said, smiling and interrupting her thoughts. He placed a hand on her arm. "You know, you and I haven't had very much time to ourselves as of late. When was the last time I took you out to dinner?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"That means it's been too long," he declared, lightly squeezing the arm he was holding. "How about I make arrangements for us to dine at your favorite restaurant tomorrow evening?"

For a moment, she was silent, thinking about how she would no longer be residing at the Château deChagny when the next evening came. From that point on, she would no longer be able to really consider herself a deChagny, as she was only such by marriage, and the next day, she would begin the proceedings to no longer be married to the dear, clueless man who had given her that surname.

Guilt filled her once more as she lied again by smiling and saying, "Yes, tomorrow evening sounds wonderful."

He kissed her for a brief moment, then pulled away and smiled at her. "Tomorrow evening it is, then, my dear."

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" Jeanette's voice called from downstairs. "The mailman has just arrived and you told me to let you know when today's mail had come."

"Very good, Jeanette," he called back, giving Christine one more kiss before turning and beginning to exit the bedroom. "I'm on my way down now."

And then, without saying anything else to her, Raoul left the bedroom, slightly closing the door behind him. A few moments later, she could hear him descending the staircase and thanking Jeanette for alerting him as he'd asked her to.

_Poor Raoul_, she thought to herself rather sadly, sinking onto the bed and sitting on its edge. _He's been nothing but wonderful to me these past fifteen years… he's always so sweet, so considerate… how will I be able to live with myself after I break his heart tomorrow?_

Now feeling that she was a terrible wife in addition to being a terrible mother, she rose to her feet and headed out of the bedroom and downstairs, silently praying that God would give her the strength needed in order to begin her life with Erik, a life which would allow her to experience the happiness which she only felt in his presence.

~ o ~

Late the next morning, Christine lay in bed, feeling mixed emotions—anxiety, excitement, anticipation, and, most of all, guilt.

Raoul had surprised her by having her awaken to breakfast in bed, which he had both cooked and served himself. Then he had told her that, in preparation for the nice dinner out which he would be treating her to that evening, he had arranged for her to have her hair and nails done at the most elegant, reputed, and expensive beauty salon within an eighty-kilometer radius.

"Your appointment is scheduled for four o'clock this afternoon," he had informed her, causing her to feel a pang in her heart, for she certainly wouldn't be able to have a four o'clock beauty appointment if she was to meet Erik at the train station at three o'clock. At four o'clock that afternoon, she probably wouldn't even be in Paris anymore, depending on where she and Erik chose to go and when their train departed.

Her guilt for the betrayal which she would commit that afternoon by leaving the Château deChagny with no intention of ever returning as a resident was considerably dampening her desire to leave with Erik, a fact which both made her feel a little more reassured as to her moral character and frightened her.

Certainly she did feel reassured that she was beginning to second-guess her plan to leave Paris and go with Erik, since it indicated that she wasn't as terrible a wife and mother as she had been thinking herself to be over the course of the past twenty-four hours.

_But I love Erik_, she thought to herself rather miserably, sighing and rubbing her forehead in a gesture of frustration. _I love him and I want to be with him…and so it scares me that I'm feeling less and less like leaving with him._

For several more moments, she sat in bed and contemplated how she was ever going to quit feeling guilty enough to be able to leave in order to meet Erik at the train station three o'clock, and then she let out another sigh and rose, pulling on her nearby robe and slippers and picking up her carpetbag. She had thought about using a suitcase in order to pack things to take with her in her new life with Erik, but then she had decided that such would not be a wise decision—and therefore, she would only take a few things which her carpet bag would be large enough to hold. She would have to purchase new clothes and other such things that she wasn't packing much of to take with her, but that would be better; it would allow her to have very few items which held any ties to Raoul, if any at all.

Then she began packing, placing all the items that she had ever received from her children, a pair of shoes, and a few of her favorite dresses into the carpetbag. She decided that these items would be the only ones which she would take with her, so she then closed her carpetbag and placed it on her side of the bed which she had shared with Raoul for the past fifteen years, knowing that Raoul wouldn't see it until she was carrying it on her way out that afternoon.

Once this had been done, she decided that it would be a good time to get dressed and ready for the challenging day which surely lay ahead of her, and so she went to the closet, picking the plainest dress she owned and deciding that it would be the one which she wore.

_After all_, she reasoned, _within a few hours, I will no longer be able to call myself a Vicomtesse, for I will no longer consider myself the Vicomte's wife. I will be an ordinary woman… leading an extraordinary life with an extraordinary man._

With this thought in her head, she smiled and began to dress, feeling as if she was wearing the grandest clothes in the world because she suddenly felt so confident in her decision to leave with Erik.

_I'm making the right decision_, she thought to herself firmly. _I'm going to be with the man I love most… it's true that I'll hurt another man whom I love in the process, but… everyone deserves the greatest happiness he can find in the world, and I will have that with Erik. And I'm certain that Raoul will be far happier with another woman than he ever has been with me, for the woman he'll find to be his next wife will be one who loves him the way he deserves to be loved._

Her confidence boosted to the point at which it had been when she'd arrived at the Opera two evenings previously, and her guilt and anxiety diminished, leaving her to feel only excitement and anticipation in forms far stronger than they had been before she'd gotten out of bed.

"Madame la Vicomtesse! Vivienne, Jacques, Claude!" Jeanette's voice came from downstairs. "Lunch is ready!"

Sighing happily, Christine examined herself in her armoire mirror briefly, decided that she looked perfectly fine, and then exited the bedroom, going downstairs and into the dining room, where Vivienne, Jacques, and Claude were already seated at their assigned places at the table. Raoul was out of the house, having announced that he had several errands to run during the morning and early afternoon and wouldn't be back in time to join his family for lunch.

"Bon après-midi, my darlings," Christine greeted her children, kissing the tops of their heads before taking her own place at the table. She looked at Jeanette, who was standing nearby. "And what have you prepared for us today, Jeanette?"

"A turkey breast with potatoes and buttered asparagus, Madame."

"Very good," Christine replied, clasping her hands together as Jeanette briefly disappeared into the kitchen before returning with three plates that already had the aforementioned turkey, potatoes, and asparagus on them. She took a deep breath as her plate was placed before her. "Mmm. It looks and smells delicious."

"Thank you, Madame," Jeanette said, curtsying as she placed the children's plates before them. "Now go on and eat."

Upon hearing this from their maid, the three deChagnys picked up their forks and began to eat their lunch, which they all clearly enjoyed due to the pleased expressions which came to their faces. They found the meal so enjoyable, in fact, that they had seconds but still managed to finish within about twenty minutes when eating only one serving of a meal generally took them about fifteen minutes.

"It was wonderful, Jeanette," Christine said gratefully to Jeanette as she placed her plate and silverware in the kitchen sink, which was filled with hot, soapy water because Jeanette had already begun to wash the children's plates.

"Très bonne, Madame. I'm glad you enjoyed it," Jeanette replied, nodding her head slightly in a gesture of humility and thankfulness.

Christine briefly smiled at Jeanette, then turned and made her way back upstairs to the room which would not be her bedroom for very much longer. A glance at the clock on the wall told her that it was now one o'clock in the afternoon. Walking to the train station took about fifteen minutes, so in order to meet Erik at three o'clock, she would have to leave at a quarter to the hour. She therefore only had an hour and forty-five minutes left before leaving.

_I hope Raoul has returned from whatever errands he's running by that time_, she thought to herself somewhat anxiously. _He deserves a face-to-face explanation of what's happening… and if he's not here before I leave, he won't be getting it and he'll instead have to learn of what has happened through a note which I'll have to leave him. And I'd really rather not do that to him…_

After a moment, she no longer felt really concerned about the matter, for she was certain that it wouldn't be much longer before Raoul returned. She therefore decided to occupy that time by doing several things about the bedroom—and the first thing she wanted to do was begin to disassociate herself from Raoul and her marriage to him in any way she could.

She walked over to the armoire, sitting down and reaching at the back of her neck. She then unclasped the pearl necklace which Raoul had given her the day before, removing it and setting it atop the armoire. Next came the earrings, which were pearls that perfectly matched her necklace and which Raoul had given to her as a gift for their anniversary the year before. After that, she took off the diamond bracelet which she had received from Raoul on her seventeenth birthday—the first birthday she had celebrated as a married woman.

Once these pieces had been removed and placed on the armoire, she took a deep breath, for she knew the last item which she had left to remove—her wedding ring.

Removing her ring was unquestionably going to be the most difficult part of removing her jewelry—after all, it held more sentimental value than any other piece of jewelry she owned or had ever owned; it was the most important symbol of her connection to Raoul which she had.

_For fifteen years, I've worn this ring every day without ever removing it—it's always remained on my finger_, she thought to herself, looking down at her left ring finger and regarding the ring which was on it. _Despite countless times of bathing, three instances of going through childbirth, several bouts of illness from both myself and others in my household… despite everything, I've never taken it off_.

Then she wondered if she should really be removing the ring right then. Should she wait until she was just about to leave, and then, in the midst of apologizing to Raoul for hurting him the way she knew she was going to, take it off and hand it to him?

Perhaps not. Such an action would probably be a bit too dramatic… and she knew that the moment would be dramatic enough without her removing the ring during it. And besides, she could remember that when she had left Erik and gone with Raoul fifteen years previously, the last thing she had done to him before leaving had been to remove the ring which he had intended to be her wedding ring for him, place it in his hand, and then walk away. She still remembered the look of pain and brokenhearted disappointment which had come to his face in those moments, and she decided that she didn't want to do such a thing to Raoul. He was already going to look sad enough, she was sure, and she didn't want him to look any worse than he was going to look when she told him what was happening.

Taking a deep breath in order to brace herself for the significant action she was about to take, she took hold of her wedding ring and then slowly removed it. Once it had slid all the way off her finger, she examined it for several moments, thinking about how important this ring had been to her for fifteen years and that the fact that she'd taken it off held even more importance. By performing an action which really seemed rather simple, she had almost completely removed herself from the life she had been leading for so long.

_Goodbye, Raoul_, she thought to herself, thinking the words which she would shortly be saying to her husband, and then she placed her wedding ring atop the armoire with all the rest of her jewelry which she'd removed, intending to never touch it again after that point.

At almost the precise moment in which she set down her ring, she heard the front door open downstairs, and then she heard Raoul calling out.

"Christine? Children? I'm back."

She rose to her feet, exiting the bedroom and going downstairs to the front entryway of the house, where Raoul stood, a rather large vase of pinkish marigolds—her favorite flowers—in his arms.

"Oh, Raoul!" she exclaimed, rushing over to help him, as she saw that he was having a bit of difficulty holding onto it by himself—because after all, the vase was quite large and it was as filled with marigolds as it could possibly be. "What on Earth? Why do you have these?"

He chuckled as he peered at her around the large mass of flowers. "They're for you, of course. Why else would I have brought a big vase of your favorite flowers home?"

"For me?" she echoed, blinking in a somewhat incredulous manner. "But… why?"

"Don't you understand that today is your day, Christine?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows at her and smiling. "I bought you a sizable vase of your favorite flowers, you're going to a hair and nail appointment at the best beauty salon in the general vicinity here in just a short while, and tonight we're having dinner at your favorite restaurant. I want this to be a day you'll remember for a long time, so I'm doing everything I can to help make it so."

For several moments, she didn't know what to say and instead stared at him. And while she did, the guilt she'd earlier felt about her plans to leave him suddenly returned, causing her heart to squeeze in the most painful way.

"Thank you," she finally said once she'd managed to make the guilt downsize just a bit, speaking slowly. She gave him a believable smile. "You're doing an excellent job of making this a day to remember."

He smiled back at her. "I'm glad you think so. But just wait until you see what I have planned later…"

"I can't wait," she lied, her heart squeezing even more intensely than it had a few moments earlier, and she gently pulled the vase out of his grip. "I'm going to take these upstairs to our bedroom. I'll be back in a few moments."

"Are you sure you can take them by yourself?" he inquired as she turned away, taking a few steps toward her. "They really are quite heavy, as I'm sure you've now noticed."

"Don't worry; I can manage," she said, and then, without another word to him and without waiting to see if he'd say more, she went upstairs, carrying the vase to the bedroom.

She set the vase atop her armoire and closed the door. And with tears welling in her eyes, she sank down onto the bed and let out a long, shuddering breath.

_Oh, Raoul, why must you make this so difficult?_ she thought, slowly closing her eyes. _Why is it that, on the day when I plan to leave you, you suddenly decide that you're going to be as romantic and spontaneous as you can? Why did you have to be so wonderful _today? _Couldn't you have picked an earlier time… like before the time when I decided that I was going to find Erik, tell him that I wanted to be with him, and then leave you for him?_

Without warning, the tears that had been in her eyes suddenly began to roll down her cheeks, and the most powerful feeling of guilt that she'd ever felt in her thirty-one years of life overwhelmed her. So she did the only thing which she felt that, in that moment, she could do—covered her face with her hands and began to cry softly.

Things weren't supposed to be this way. She wasn't supposed to be wavering back and forth between leaving with Erik and staying with Raoul; she was supposed to be firm in her decision one way or the other. She wasn't supposed to be making a choice between the two men at all, in fact; she was supposed to remain loyal to her husband, the man whom she herself had chosen to be with.

_You've got to stop this crying_, she then thought to herself rather angrily, roughly wiping away the tears on her face and sniffing. _And you've got to stop this uncertainty in your decision-making. All you're doing is hurting yourself—and, really, you're hurting both Raoul and Erik as well, though they don't know of the conflicting feelings which lie within you. So choose what you're going to do _now_—and once you've chosen, don't allow yourself to change your mind once more._

Once this thought had gone through her head, she swallowed hard and took a deep breath, looking at the clock on the bedroom wall and seeing that time had flown by rather quickly since she and the children had eaten lunch, for it was already two o'clock in the afternoon.

Her time was running out quickly; she had forty-five minutes to make a firm decision about whether or not to leave with Erik.

She thought about Erik then; she thought about all the things she loved about him and the memories she had of him—all of which she held dear. She thought about the enamored manner in which he had looked at her the night they had first met, which she could remember despite the fact that she had been completely mesmerized by him and therefore insensible in all other aspects of her mental state. She remembered the wild way in which her heart had pounded when, after six months of being unseen, he had appeared at the New Year's Masquerade. She remembered the incredulous expression on his face and the way he had cried after she'd chosen to be with him instead of Raoul and given him his first two kisses. She remembered the look of pure happiness that had been on his face two nights previously when she had told him that she wanted to be with him… she remembered the passionate way in which he had kissed her… she remembered the tender, loving way he had held onto her while they had made love…

Passion for the masked man whom she had always loved filled her to the brim, causing her to think of the lack of passion which she felt for Raoul. She didn't feel passionately about her husband, despite the fact that she had been married to him for fifteen years and he had done so much for her in that time. She was entirely certain he knew that she held a rather deep affection for Erik, or at least had for the first while that they were married, despite the fact that she'd done her best to hide it, especially since he had risked his life for her sake before their marriage and nearly been killed by Erik. And yet he had never said anything to indicate any sort of frustration or jealousy towards that affection or loved her any less because of it. He had remained faithful to her in every aspect… he had fathered her children… he had been so good to her… and now she was intending to leave him…

A lump rose in her throat and she tried her best to swallow it down, but it didn't work; it remained lodged in the same place. She was determined not to start crying again, however, and that determination worked, for no tears began falling.

_I want to be with Erik so badly_, she thought to herself, letting out a rather long sigh. _But if I leave Raoul after being with him for so long, if I hurt him like that, I'm sure that I'll regret it for the rest of my life… I'll never forgive myself. Then I'll begin to resent what I've done and, eventually, resent Erik for being the reason that I left Raoul. And I don't want to resent Erik… especially since this isn't his fault by any stretch. He didn't try to win me back; I was the one who put forth the effort._

With this thought in mind, she finally made her decision—she would remain with Raoul. The choice would kill her, she knew, because she truly wanted to be with Erik… but she felt that if she went with him, it would end in unhappiness for both of them, her because she would feel guilty for leaving and consequently hurting Raoul and him because he would know that she wasn't completely satisfied with him. And more than that, the decision made her feel even worse because she knew that Erik was trusting her to meet him at the train station at three o'clock and she would be breaking that trust by not appearing.

_I have to let it go, though_, she thought. _I have to let Erik go… if I had chosen to be with him fifteen years ago, things would obviously be all right. But I didn't make that decision… and I thought I could change it, but I can't do that without feeling an incredible amount of guilt and, eventually, unhappiness. It's better this way. Erik won't feel that way initially, but I'm sure he will someday._

She looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was half past the hour—in just thirty minutes, Erik would be awaiting her arrival at the train station… only to find that she wouldn't come.

"Forgive me, Erik," she whispered softly, slowly closing her eyes and swallowing hard. "I've been such a fool… but it is I who will suffer most because of it, because now I will never see you again. I'll want to every day for the rest of my life… but I simply won't allow it. All it will do is hurt the both of us. But I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I hope you'll someday be able to find it in your heart to forgive me."

All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door.

"Christine?" Raoul's voice came from the other side of the door. "Are you all right? You've been up here quite a while."

"Oh, yes," she responded, wiping away tears that had suddenly sprung into her eyes and rising to her feet. "I'm fine. You may come in if you want."

The door opened and Raoul stepped inside, smiling at her and walking over to her. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close to him, and kissed her softly.

"What have you been doing up here all by yourself?" he inquired, continuing to smile at her. "I was beginning to worry."

"Nothing, really," she lied, shrugging and shaking her head a bit. "I was just thinking."

"Hmm," he murmured, nodding. Then he happened to glance toward her armoire, and when he did, he suddenly looked rather surprised. "You're not wearing your jewelry?"

Just as he'd done, she glanced over at the armoire and saw her earrings, necklace, and wedding ring sitting in the same place that she'd set them down earlier. A small sense of panic ran through her then, for she was worried that he would suspect what her plans had been when she had removed those items.

"They were just bothering me a bit, that's all," she replied, turning to face him as he did the same with her. "So I decided to take them off for a while. I'll put them back on before I go to the beauty salon."

"All right, then," he said, nodding, and she was relieved to see that there was no sign of suspicion or disbelief on his face. He then slid his hands down her arms until they reached her hands, which he took hold of. "Now how about you quit being so reclusive and come downstairs? The children and I are playing a game of poker. Perhaps you'd like to take part."

"Certainly," she agreed, and then he turned and went out, heading back downstairs to the parlor, where he'd previously been.

She intended to follow him—but before she did, however, she picked up her necklace and earrings which had been resting on the armoire and put them back on. Then she picked up her wedding ring and looked at it for a few moments, thinking about how she already regretted the decision she had made—how she regretted having made the exact same decision fifteen years earlier.

_I love you, Erik_, she thought, letting out a soft sigh as she slid her wedding ring back onto her finger. _And I always will._

Once she had taken a deep breath, she straightened herself and then turned, exiting the bedroom and going downstairs in order to join her husband and children in the parlor. She saw that all four of them were sitting at the table, playing a game of Five-Card Draw Poker.

"Hello, Mama," Vivienne greeted her mother when she came into view, smiling at her. "Would you like to play, too, once this game is over?"

"Yes, I certainly would," Christine replied, smiling the best smile she could muster back at Vivienne. She seated herself in the chair next to Raoul. "Who's winning so far?"

"Papa is," Claude hastened to inform her, frowning a bit. Then he leaned rather close and continued in a low voice—"I think he's cheating."

Raoul, having heard his youngest child although he hadn't been meant to be able to, chuckled softly. "I'm not cheating. It's just that I'm older and more experienced in playing this game… and therefore, I'm doing better. And you know that. You don't want to admit it, though, because you don't like to lose."

"Neither do you, if I recall correctly," Christine teased gently, leaning over slightly so that she bumped her husband a bit.

He smiled and lightly bumped her back, his eyes remaining fixed on the cards in his hand. "You're right. I don't like to lose… in fact, I rather hate it. But losing in a game of cards is far less significant than losing in other aspects, so it's not quite so terrible."

"I want to replace one of my cards," Vivienne informed her father, who was dealing the cards. She placed the card which she wished to discard face-down on the table, at which point Raoul removed two cards from the deck sitting next to him. He then set the first one he'd drawn face-down on the table and handed her the second one.

Upon receiving her new card, Vivienne frowned and let out a sigh. "Oh, I wish I could take my old card back."

Raoul chuckled at this. "Chérie, you're not supposed to let anyone know if you think the hand which you've been dealt is bad. Remember, the other players should think that you have a good hand and therefore have a legitimate chance at winning."

The deChagny daughter's frown became deeper. "I know… I'm just not very good at keeping it a secret."

"Well, you'll never win if you don't learn," Raoul replied. He then turned his attention to Jacques and Claude. "Do you have any cards you'd like to replace, boys?"

After a moment of silence, both brothers shook their heads.

"Very well," Raoul then said, clearing his throat and straightening himself a bit. "Then it's time for everyone to show their cards so we can see who's got the best hand."

Everyone then laid their cards down on the table, allowing their competitors to see what they each had. Vivienne had a pair of sevens, Jacques had a high card due to the Ace in his hand, Claude had a straight flush, and Raoul had a full house.

"Hmm," Raoul murmured raising his eyebrows and looking rather impressed. "Well, it looks like Claude just won his first game of poker."

Claude momentarily examined his hand, then everyone else's, before his face brightened. "Oh, I did!"

"You have a very impressive hand, too," Raoul informed him. "Remember what I told you about the different kind of hands you can have in poker? The straight flush, which is what you have, is the second-best hand one could possibly get. The only hand that can beat a straight flush is a royal flush."

"Right, I remember," Claude replied, nodding fervently. "Wow! I knew I had a straight flush, but I didn't remember how good of a hand it is."

"Well, now that it's helped you win a game for the first time, I'm sure you'll remember from this point on," Raoul said. He then gathered together all the cards which had been played in that round, placing them back in the deck, and looked over at Christine. "You're going to play with us now, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," she replied with a smile, scooting her chair a bit closer to the table. "Deal me in."

He nodded, and then he shuffled the deck of cards while the children—knowing that they were giving up the chips which they had won because they were starting over now that there was a new player—gathered all the chips together and pushed them back towards Raoul, since, being the dealer, he had control of the chips. Once everyone had their cards, he redistributed the chips so that everyone had an equal amount.

"Now it's time for the small and big blinds," he then announced, placing a white chip, which was the chip of smallest value, down on the table as the small blind. He turned to Christine. "You place the big blind down."

She nodded silently, taking a black chip, which was equivalent in value to two white chips, and setting it apart from her pile of chips. Then the children each placed down a black chip in order to continue participating in the game, while Raoul took away his white chip and set down a black chip as well.

Once that had been done, Raoul gathered the five black chips together and placed them in the center of the table before dealing five cards to each player, himself included. Then the family picked up their individual hands, examining them in silence for several moments.

"All right," Raoul then said after those moments had passed, clearing his throat and straightening himself a bit as he had done earlier when the previous round had ended. "Well, I think I'll begin this round by immediately betting."

With that, he placed two black chips on the table and waited to see what his wife and children would do.

"I'll stay," Christine almost immediately said, following her husband's example and putting two black chips down on the table and smiling at him. He smiled back at her.

"This hand really isn't good… and I had hardly any chips at the end of the last game," Vivienne concluded, setting her cards down as a sign that she was folding. "I think I'll wait to play until I start with a hand that looks at least a bit promising."

Claude, apparently feeling confident from his recent first win, placed down two black chips and a white chip. "Raise."

Raoul chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair a bit. "That's the spirit, son."

Not to be outdone by his younger brother if he could help it, Jacques let out a rather loud sniff and placed down three black chips. "Raise."

"Well, since I was the first one to place a bet, I suppose I rather have to continue," Raoul said, adding a black chip to his bet. Christine and Claude followed suit.

"All right," Raoul then continued, looking to the three of his family members who were continuing in the game. "Would any of you like to replace your cards?"

"Just one," Claude said, pulling one of the cards out of his hand and pushing it over to Raoul. Raoul took it from him and gave him another card.

Christine momentarily examined her hand and saw that, so far, she had a three of a kind—the last kind of poker hand whose odds of allowing one to win a game were greater than one in one hundred. So she looked up at Raoul and shrugged. "I think I'll stay as I am."

He nodded, then turned his attention to Jacques. "Anything you'd like to replace, Jacques?"

For a moment, Jacques regarded his hand, and then he pulled out two of them and gave them to Raoul, who gave him two from the deck.

"I'm not going to trade out any of my cards, so we'll continue now," Raoul said as he placed Jacques's two discarded cards at the bottom of the deck. "Does someone want to place a new bet?"

While briefly contemplating whether or not she wanted to place a small or large bet, Christine happened to glance at the clock which sat above the fireplace—and when she did, her heart shattered into a million pieces.

The time was three o'clock.

She felt a lump begin to rise in her throat as she thought about Erik—poor, dear Erik, who was surely pacing about the train station, awaiting her arrival with hope, trust, and excitement. She pictured those emotions beginning to wear down as the time passed and she continued to not show… she pictured the look of pained disappointment, that which had been on his face when she'd left him fifteen years ago, that would cross his face as he realized that she wasn't going to come.

_Oh, Erik_, she thought to herself sadly, _I'm so sorry, my love…_

"Christine?" Raoul's voice suddenly came, causing her to snap back to reality and look at him. She saw that he looked rather concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she lied, nodding and letting out a somewhat soft sigh. "My mind just wandered for a moment, that's all."

"Ah." He looked up at the clock, telling her that he evidently knew she'd been looking at it. "Is there a particular reason you were so fixated on the clock? You haven't got somewhere to be, have you? You have an appointment at the beauty salon in an hour, after all."

"No," she replied, shaking her head, at the same time thinking, _Someone is expecting me to be somewhere, but I'm not going to be there… I'm going to disappoint him, just like I did so many years ago._

"Very well," he said, nodding and shrugging, and then he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing it. "Then let's continue with our game, shall we?"

She nodded silently, giving another brief look toward the clock before turning her attention back to the game, the decision which she already regretted having made filling her with guilt. And in that moment, she was entirely certain that she would continue to regret her decision for the rest of her life.

~ o ~

Early one morning, Christine lay in bed, feeling rather miserable—just as she really had every day since she'd decided not to spend the rest of her life with Erik the way she wanted to.

Nearly two months had passed since she had made that decision, the decision with which she had broken both her heart and Erik's once more, and her demeanor had been noticeably sullen in that time. Everyone had been asking her about it, especially Raoul, and she had dismissed it by simply responding with the excuse that she was feeling somewhat ill.

This excuse, however, wasn't entirely untruthful—for a few weeks, she had been feeling sickness-inducing changes occurring within her body, causing her to feel an intense anxiety. She certainly hoped that the changes weren't happening for the same reason that they had happened the other times when she'd experienced them.

Her ailment must have known that her thoughts were directed toward it, for at that moment, it began to flare up. She felt bile begin to creep up her throat, and she quickly rose from the bed and rushed to the adjoining bathroom, kneeling before the toilet and almost immediately beginning to vomit.

A number of minutes passed before she finally ceased, and as she flushed the toilet, she looked up and saw Raoul, who had risen about an hour before her and was already fully dressed, standing before her. She jolted slightly with surprise, not having heard him enter, but said nothing.

"You are with child, Christine," he said quietly after a moment, his voice solemn.

She knew that he was phrasing it as a statement and not a question, forcing her to finally stop denying what she had known ever since she had begun to get sick. She was, indeed, pregnant… and, due to the never-before-experienced intensity of her consequent sickness, she knew that the child she was carrying belonged to Erik.

Therefore, she had no choice but to nod, and then she inquired, "How did you know?"

A small smile twitched at the corners of his lips. "Christine, you and I have had three children. If I still wasn't able to identify the symptoms of a pregnancy after that, I would have to be a fool."

"Oh," she said softly, nodding again and then looking down at the floor, wondering how he would respond when he inevitably discovered that this newly-formed child wasn't his. She'd never before had Erik's child, but she knew that at least some characteristics the child would undoubtedly possess would indicate that Raoul was clearly not its father.

"It's not mine, is it?" he then asked, his voice even more quiet than it had been before, and she snapped her head back up and looked at him in surprise.

"Why… why would you even think that…?" she breathed incredulously, her voice trailing off at the end. She was astonished that he already knew—especially since she couldn't think _how_ he could possibly know. Had Erik, in his grief at her second abandonment, sent a note to Raoul and told him of the night that she had come to the Opera?

He shrugged. "The timing is right for it to be believable that it's mine. But I have known for a week… which means that you have known for at least a week longer. And if the child were mine, you would have told me the moment you knew."

Feeling both guilty for the betrayal which she'd committed against the dear man before her and afraid because she was certain he'd be angry when she told him that the child was Erik's, she bowed her head and began to cry softly. Her whole body shook, for though she wasn't crying loudly, she was crying more intensely than she ever had before.

"Christine," he murmured, kneeling down next to her and gently brushing some of her curls away from her face. "Please… talk to me. Do you know who the father is?"

Not daring to look up at him because she didn't want to see whether or not his expression was angry despite the gentleness in his tone, she nodded.

"And who is it?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at him, her heart squeezing painfully when she saw an expression of trusting, unwavering love all across his face. And in that moment, she felt that she simply couldn't tell him the truth—she had already lost one of the men she loved; she couldn't afford to lose the other.

"Erik… Erik raped me," she lied, her body quaking in shock at the crime which she'd just wrongfully accused her masked one-time lover of committing.

Upon hearing this, his eyes widened in anguish and his face hardened in fury toward the pseudo-rapist.

"While you were out of town, he broke into the house in the middle of the night," she continued to lie, her voice now dropping to a whisper that made it seem as if she was ashamed of what had apparently happened to her—but instead, she was ashamed of the irreparable damage which she had now caused through her deception. "Our bedroom window was unlocked… he opened it from the outside and climbed inside. And then he came over to me, threw the covers off me, and forced himself upon me. I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth with one of his hands and stifled the noise."

He squeezed his eyes shut, apparently trying to control the wild anger she knew he had to be feeling. "I didn't even know he was here in Paris."

"Neither did I… but how would we have known? The last time either of us saw him was fifteen years ago," she replied, somehow managing to swallow down the lump of guilt which had risen in her throat.

For a moment, he was still and silent, but then he opened his eyes and looked at her. The determination which she suddenly saw in his eyes and expression made her anxious.

"Don't worry, my poor, sweet Christine," he then said to her, his voice containing both a gentle tenderness and a hard edge, reaching out and lightly stroking one of her cheeks. "That monster will pay for the crimes which he has committed—those which were committed years ago and that which he has just recently committed against you. I will go to the police station right now, tell them what has happened, and begin forming a hunting party… and once that party has been created, we will search for him to the very ends of the Earth… and when we find him, we will bring him back here and ensure that he is punished accordingly."

She gasped, her eyes widening in horror. "No!"

At this, he looked astonished. "_No?_ Christine, you must be out of your right mind! How could you possibly protect him? It's understandable that you attempted to do so fifteen years ago when you were young and enamored with him, but now? He raped you and got you pregnant with an illegitimate child in the process!"

"I don't want this to be pursued," she said softly, slowly rising to her feet. He did so as well, at which point she put her hands on his face. "I just want to let it go. I don't want anything more to do with Erik… and besides, the last time you decided to go against Erik, he nearly killed you. I don't want anything happening to you, especially not now in my current state."

For a moment, he simply looked at her, but then he sighed and nodded his head. "All right. All right, Christine. I won't go forward in trying to avenge your dishonor. I'll simply consult with a doctor and see what remedies he can recommend for terminating an unwanted pregnancy."

"What?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening again. "No! I don't want to get rid of this baby."

He scoffed incredulously and threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration. "Why not? The child you're carrying is a rapechild; why would you want to keep it? It would constantly serve as a reminder of what Erik did to you. One would think that you would want no such reminder around you."

"This child is innocent," she said softly, placing a hand on her stomach. "It shouldn't have its life ended prematurely simply due to the criminal circumstances in which it was conceived."

"No person who shares Erik's bloodline is innocent," he replied rather darkly. "But you don't want to get rid of it? Fine. You can give birth to it… but then you'll have to choose whether or not you want to deliver it to an orphanage or simply turn it loose on the streets."

She swallowed hard; she didn't at all like the options he was giving her regarding Erik's child. "I want it to stay here with us."

"Absolutely not," he retorted, the expression on his face almost turning into a snarl. "There is no way I am raising Le Fantôme de l'Opéra's bastard as my own child."

Upon hearing her husband call her unborn child a bastard, a great sense of anger rose within her, and it took all the willpower she had to suppress it as she said, her voice trembling slightly, "This _bastard_ doesn't just belong to Erik. It's my child, too. Shouldn't I therefore be able to raise it myself in my own household, as is my privilege as a mother?"

"Oh, Christine," he sighed, suddenly sounding rather tired as he closed his eyes and began massaging his temples. "You're not making any sense to me. This child's father got you pregnant by raping you… yet you want to associate yourself with it! I've never before met a woman who was raped and consequently impregnated that wanted anything at all to do with the child."

"Well…" She reached out and took his hands in hers, gently squeezing them. "I can't explain the bond that almost immediately occurs between most mothers and their unborn children. All I can tell you is that it's very powerful… and it's making me want to keep this child and raise it… and have it know that I am its mother."

A few moments passed in which he stared at her with an expression which seemed to consist mostly of disbelief, and then he simply sighed in a rather resigned manner and shrugged.

"It seems you've already made up your mind—for now, that is. So you may keep the child, if you like." He paused, and then his expression became somewhat hard as he pointed a rather stern finger at her. "But know this—I will never claim that child as my own. It will not be a deChagny; it will be a servant without a last name. And no one outside of this household will know of its existence. So once it begins to become evident that you are pregnant, you must not go out until you have given birth… and that child will not be permitted outside at any time for any reason. And if we are having guests, it will not be allowed to be seen; it will have to stay hidden in its room. As long as these conditions are met, the child will be allowed to live here. Do you understand?"

She was silent for a minute or two, thinking about how she didn't like the circumstances under which Raoul was saying her child would be forced to live. But she knew that living as a servant was far better than living in an orphanage or on the streets, and so what choice did she have? She wanted to give Erik's child the best she was able to give… and it seemed that servitude was, at this point, the best.

_And after all_, she thought to herself, _perhaps the child will grow on Raoul. It will take time, of course, but I'm sure he'll eventually come around and change his mind about how he wants the child to live. Of course, it's doubtful that he'll ever say that the child is his… but once the child has managed to come into his good graces, he'll probably have no issue with taking it in as his ward._

With these thoughts in mind, she finally nodded. "Yes. Yes, I understand."

He nodded. "All right. Now, if you change your mind about wanting to keep the child or even give birth to it…"

"I won't change my mind," she replied, shaking her head fervently.

"You think that now, but a few months from now, you may have, in fact, changed your mind. But anyway, if you do change your mind, you must let me know what you'd rather do instead. I don't want you to feel as if you're under any obligation to raise this child."

"Okay," she said, nodding and shrugging.

For a moment, he regarded her silently, and he turned and began to walk away. "I suppose we'll have to find somewhere for it to sleep… somewhere in the servants' quarters, of course. I think there are a few empty rooms…"

Then his voice trailed off as he exited the room.

She walked out of the bathroom then, lying on her back in bed as she thought about what the future now held for her.

_Erik, I'm pregnant_, she thought to herself. _And, of course, it's yours. Can you believe it? I've always dreamed of having your child… I just didn't think it would be like this. And now I really regret not being with you because now this child will never have the extreme privilege of knowing you. But I promise you that I'll do the best I can in raising our child without you. I'll give it everything I can._

Resting her hands on her stomach, she thought about what her child would be like. Surely it would have the gift of music… and she was certain that it would have at least one physical attribute which would indicate that Erik was its father.

_Perhaps it will have his eyes_, she mused. _Those beautiful grey-green eyes… oh, yes, I certainly hope it has Erik's eyes._

For a moment more she contemplated how the child might look, and then she decided that it was time to begin the day. And so she rose from the bed once again, dressing herself and already feeling that she couldn't wait to meet her unborn child.

~ o ~

Christine paced about her unborn child's bedroom anxiously, resting her hands on the small of her back. She glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was five o'clock in the morning.

Her pregnancy had now come to term, and for the past six hours, she had been having contractions. They hadn't become bad enough that the family doctor needed to be called, however; she knew that the child still wasn't yet ready to come into the world. So ever since the contractions had started, she had been walking around the baby's bedroom to try and combat the pain a bit. She had occasionally taken short naps on the bed which she'd had placed in the room in case a situation where she needed to stay rather close to the child overnight ever occurred, but for the most part, her contractions had kept her awake.

If she hadn't already known that the child she was carrying belonged to Erik, what she'd been through since eleven o'clock the previous night would have made it clear—in giving birth to her previous three children, the birthing process had never taken as long as it was taking for this child. With Vivienne, Jacques, and Claude, she had given birth within four hours; with the baby that was about to arrive, it was obviously going to take quite a bit longer.

All of a sudden, Raoul entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him and walking over to her as she stopped pacing.

"How are you doing?" he inquired, placing his hands on her shoulders, and she could tell that he was feeling rather concerned.

She shrugged, managing to smile a bit in the process. "The same as I've been ever since the contractions started, really."

"There hasn't been any change?" he asked, his brow furrowing a bit. "The contractions haven't gotten any closer together since I last came to check on you? That was nearly two and a half hours ago."

"No, they haven't really gotten any closer together," she replied, shaking her head and shrugging again. "I mean, there's been a slight change, but it's not much."

He sighed and shook his head, looking more worried than he had a moment ago. "I don't like how long this is taking. It's making me feel as if something's wrong."

"Well, you have to remember that this is different from the other times," she said. "This child has a different father, which means that it has different genetics and other such things which would likely affect how long it takes for it to be born."

"At any rate, I think I ought to call the doctor and have him come so he might see if there's anything he can do to remedy the situation," he replied. "I mean, you've been at this all morning. Surely you're getting tired… surely you want this to be over now."

"I do," she admitted. "But I don't know if trying to rush things would be the wisest choice."

"Still, I'm going to send for the doctor so that we can get his opinion on the matter," he informed her, gently taking her by the shoulders and having her lie down on the bed. "Try resting a bit… because if the doctor decides that it's time for the baby to come out, then you're going to have to use all your remaining energy on that. I'll bring the doctor when he's arrived."

Knowing that it wouldn't do any real good to try and argue with him, especially since he had good intentions, she nodded silently and closed her eyes, attempting to take a nap.

It didn't take very long before she drifted into an easy sleep, and it seemed that she had been asleep for hours before she heard Raoul's voice again.

"Christine? Christine, the doctor is here. Wake up."

Upon opening her eyes, she looked up at saw Dr. Beaufort, the deChagny family doctor, standing before her with Raoul at his side. She liked Dr. Beaufort; he was kind and he always knew the best and most progressive solutions to any medical problem.

"Bonjour, Madame la Vicomtesse," the doctor greeted her with a gentle smile, kneeling beside her and taking one of her hands. "Your husband tells me that this baby is being rather difficult."

She nodded, giving him a small smile back. "I've been having contractions for six hours."

"Yes, I've heard," he replied. "Let's see what we can do to help it along, shall we? Now tell me… has your water broken yet?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I've only had contractions."

"Well, perhaps that's the problem," he informed her, removing his jacket as he pulled up a nearby chair. Then he placed his jacket on the back of the chair and sat down. "If you would turn yourself so that you're stretched across the bed, please, Madame."

It took a bit of effort, but she managed to do as the doctor requested.

"That's good, thank you," he said and then he turned his attention to Raoul. "Monsieur le Vicomte, if you would please have one of your maids bring a basin of hot water, two towels, and a blanket when she joins me, I would greatly appreciate it. Also, I would advise that you wait outside."

Raoul looked as if he rather didn't want to be away from Christine at this time, even if the child she was preparing to give birth to wasn't his, but he nodded silently. Then he walked over to Christine and pressed a kiss to her warm forehead.

"Everything will be all right, Christine. I'll see you when all is said and done. I love you… so very, very much."

She smiled softly at him. "And I love you."

He smiled back at her briefly, and then he exited the room.

"Now, Madame la Vicomtesse, just relax and take deep breaths while I break your water," Dr. Beaufort instructed, taking a small item which looked something like a grappling hook in his hand.

After a moment, she felt him begin to poke and prod at her, and she briefly stiffened her shoulders in a gesture of discomfort. She didn't have to tolerate it for very long, however, because she soon felt her water break.

"Good," the doctor then murmured, more to himself than to her, leaning back in his chair and letting out a soft sigh. "Now the rest of the process ought to be rather easy… it won't be long before the contractions intensify to the point where we'll be able to get the baby out."

Jeanette then entered the room, a somewhat large basin of steaming hot water in her hands, two handtowels resting on one of her arms, and a blanket resting on the other.

"Oh, hello, Jeanette," the doctor greeted the maid, who he knew from previous encounters when he had come to the Château deChagny in order to treat a sick member of the household. "Just stick one towel in the basin so that it will soak in the water, please, and sit the other towel and the blanket next to it. Then come here and tie back Madame la Vicomtesse's hair so that it won't get in her way while she's giving birth."

"Certainly, Doctor," Jeanette replied, nodding slightly and placing the towel in the basin before setting the basin down on the table next to the bed. Then she walked over to Christine, gently pulling her hair back and tying it into a loose knot.

"Thank you, Jeanette," Christine murmured, and then, all of a sudden, a contraction which was more intense than the previous ones had been went through her body. "Oh!"

"Are the contractions stronger, Madame?" Dr. Beaufort inquired.

She nodded fervently. "Yes… yes, they certainly are."

"Let me know when the next one arrives," the doctor said, pulling out his pocketwatch and examining it in silence.

A few moments passed in which nothing occurred, but then Christine was struck with another contraction, causing her to moan. "There was another one."

"Just about a minute," the doctor announced, putting his pocketwatch back inside the pocket of his trousers and then rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "Jeanette, bring the basin closer—oh, and get a washcloth and put cold water on it so that you might dab Madame la Vicomtesse's forehead with it. Madame la Vicomtesse, get ready—we're going to have you start pushing now, all right?"

Wincing as another contraction hit her, Christine let out a bit of a sigh and nodded. "All right."

"Good. Then push," he instructed her, and she did as she was told, sitting up as best she could and pushing with as much effort as she could muster.

Dr. Beaufort nodded encouragingly. "That was a good, strong first push. Keep going—if you make the other ones just as strong, your child will be born in no time. Again… push."

Taking a deep breath, she pushed again, letting out a soft moan as pain ran through her body.

"Keep going, Madame," the doctor said as Jeanette came over to Christine and placed a cool, wet washcloth on her forehead in order to slightly ease her discomfort. "Push whenever you feel ready… don't wait for me to tell you. Go on. You're doing all right."

Upon receiving these instructions, Christine continued on, going through the process of pushing, briefly resting, and pushing again several times. Each time the pain worsened, and after several minutes had passed, she let out a somewhat shocked cry as she felt the baby begin to crown.

"Your child is crowning!" the doctor then announced, telling her what she already knew. He leaned forward, apparently taking light hold of the baby's head. "Push, Madame… as best you can. This is almost over now. Give this all your might and you'll soon have been through another successful birth."

For several moments, she simply lay there on the bed, panting and trying to muster some strength in order to continue. Then, after she'd managed to do so, she continued pushing, her cries of pain continually increasing in volume and intensity as she became more sore.

"The baby is almost out!" the doctor exclaimed, turning his attention to Jeanette. "Jeanette, come over here and hold onto the basin so that we might immediately wash off the newborn once it's out."

Doing as she'd been told, Jeanette came over and picked up the basin with hot water and a towel. Christine, meanwhile, gave the two biggest pushes she could, practically yelling at the unbelievable pain she was experiencing.

"We've got it!" Dr. Beaufort announced triumphantly once those pushes had been done, reaching out and taking hold of something.

Once he had picked up this something, however, the expression on his face changed from one of gladness to one which indicated shock—his face paled a bit and his eyes widened slightly. Jeanette, upon seeing what the doctor saw, immediately gasped before covering her mouth with one hand and staggering back slightly.

After just a moment or two, however, the doctor recovered and proceeded in the way he was supposed to when children were born—he spanked the infant, causing its strangely musical cry to fill the room.

"Here, Jeanette," he then said to Jeanette, holding the baby in a proper manner, cutting the umbilical cord, and then holding the baby out to her. "Clean it off with the wet towel… and then dry it off and wrap it in the blanket."

Jeanette looked afraid and shook her head, taking a few steps away from the doctor and the infant he was holding.

"Come now!" the doctor snapped, rising from his chair and practically shoving the baby into the maid's arms. "Treat it as if it was a normal baby… go on and do as you would with any other child."

Evidently, Jeanette was more afraid of what the doctor would do if she didn't do as she'd been instructed than she was of the child, for she took hold of the towel that had been immersed in the basin and wiped the baby off with it. Then she did the same with the second towel, except with the intent of drying off the baby. Then she picked up the blanket, wrapping it around the child before walking over to Christine.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, evident sympathy in her tone as she held the bundle out to her mistress. "I'm so very sorry, Madame."

Frowning slightly in confusion, Christine took her newborn child from Jeanette and brought the bundle to her chest. Then she looked down, and when she did, she saw what Jeanette had been referring to.

Her baby was so completely wrapped in the blanket that all she could see of it was its face, which was moving slightly as the newborn evidently got used to its new environment. And, without much surprise, she saw that the upper right side of the infant's face was deformed as Erik's was.

She sighed in a gesture of disappointment; she had hoped that the child wouldn't be deformed so that its life would be easier—so that it would be spared from ridicule or any other kind of cruelty due to its appearance. And she knew that her child's deformity certainly wouldn't help it come into Raoul's good graces; her husband wouldn't like being further reminded that the child belonged to Erik.

Fortunately, however, she wasn't entirely surprised like Dr. Beaufort and Jeanette were, and therefore her expression betrayed no shock. She instead lightly brushed a finger against the child's deformity, feeling an intense love for the infant in her arms beginning to rise within her.

"What's the sex?" she inquired of Dr. Beaufort after a moment, looking up at him.

"It… it's a girl," he replied, and she saw that he swallowed rather hard. "Madame… is there something you would like me to do?"

Raising her eyebrows at him, she echoed, "Something I would like you to do? What are you talking about?"

"Your child is obviously atypical in comparison to other infants," he said, nodding down at the baby girl. "Is there something you want me to do in order to remedy the situation?"

"How could you remedy the situation?" she inquired, her eyes narrowing a bit, for she had a feeling that she knew what he was implying.

Clearing his throat, he leaned down so that he was closer to her. Then, speaking softly, he said, "I could get rid of it. I could cut off its air supply… drown it… take it to an alley and leave it there…"

"No!" she gasped, horrified despite the fact that she'd felt he would suggest such a thing. She held the child closer to her in a defensive gesture. "I am appalled, Doctor. I can't believe you would help bring new life into the world only to offer to extinguish it just minutes later!"

"My apologies, Madame la Vicomtesse," he murmured, his face reddening slightly. "I didn't mean to offend you. I am just trying to be sympathetic. I would understand if you didn't want to keep it… and if you didn't want to keep it, I would not hesitate to help you get rid of it in some form or fashion."

"_Her_, not _it_," she snapped. "And I certainly would not want you to murder an innocent child whether I wanted her or not!"

"I was not offering to only kill it—I mean, her," he replied, looking more anxious with each passing moment. "You didn't let me finish. If you did not want her but you did not want her to die, I would take her to an orphanage."

"Well, I don't want to get rid of her," Christine said. "When I became pregnant with her, I knew that it was possible she would be deformed. If I hadn't wanted her while having that knowledge, I would have either had an abortion early into my pregnancy or told you that, upon her birth, I wanted her to be taken away."

Dr. Beaufort nodded. "All right. Once again, Madame, I apologize. I didn't mean to imply that I am a heartless baby-killer or anything of that nature. I was merely trying to help."

"Just don't bring it up ever again and we'll let the matter pass," she replied. "And promise that, if ever this child is sick, you will treat her as you would anyone else in the house—to the very best of your ability… and promise that, whenever you are around her, you will do your best not to show any sign of fear or dislike on account of her deformity."

"Of course I will, Madame." He glanced down at the infant in her arms. "What are you going to name her?"

She briefly contemplated a decision which she hadn't even thought about in the nine months of her pregnancy, looking at her daughter as she thought. She wanted her daughter to have a beautiful name… a name which she could always say with fondness, both toward the name itself and the one who carried it.

"Marielle," she then said decidedly, and as soon as the name passed her lips, she loved it more than any other name she had ever said. "Her name will be Marielle."

"That is a lovely name, I think," he replied encouragingly. "Marielle… Marielle deChagny."

"No," she said, a feeling of anxiety going through her as she looked up at him and shook her head. "She is not a deChagny."

At this, he didn't ask questions; he simply nodded, and no expression of judgment or confusion came to his face. "Well, congratulations, Madame la Vicomtesse. So far, it appears that Marielle is in perfect health."

She smiled down at Marielle, who now appeared to be sleeping peacefully, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm glad."

"I will return in a few weeks to see how she is doing," he said, dipping his hands in the basin of water and then drying them with the towel which had been used to dry off Marielle. "If something happens with her or anyone else in the house before that time, however, of course you shouldn't hesitate to call."

"Well, I won't hesitate. Thank you for your help, Doctor."

"My pleasure, Madame. I'll see you next time." He picked up his jacket and pulled it on, then turned his attention to Jeanette, who had been standing there in silence ever since giving Marielle to Christine. "Goodbye, Jeanette. Please take these towels and basin and see that they are cleaned… and the bedsheets as well."

Jeanette nodded and went forward with doing as she'd been told, and then Dr. Beaufort exited the room. Christine heard him speak with Raoul, who had apparently remained right outside throughout the whole event, for a few moments, and then there was silence as the doctor evidently left.

Raoul then entered the bedroom, walking over to Christine. Feeling anxious, for she didn't know what the doctor had told him about the baby, she brought Marielle closer to her in a rather protective manner.

"Let me look at her," he said, his voice soft yet containing a tone which told her that it would be best not to argue.

Taking a deep breath and feeling her heart begin to pound a bit, she moved Marielle away from her breast a bit so that he might see her face.

For a few moments, he looked down at the sleeping infant in silence, and she saw his face harden somewhat in the process. This change in expression confirmed what she had already known in her heart—since Marielle was deformed, it would take a long time for her to win Raoul's approval… if she had any hope of winning it at all.

"I suppose we need to get a mask for her rather soon," he finally said, looking up at his wife. "We can't have her in other parts of the house with her face exposed… she might scare the servants and the children."

She nodded silently. "Until we get her one, I suppose we'll have to keep her in here all the time."

"Yes, that's right," he agreed. Then he cleared his throat a bit. "What's her name?"

"Marielle."

He nodded. "Very well. Now I suppose you'd better go on and bathe yourself… Jeanette needs the sheets so they can be washed… and she needs to put new sheets on the bed."

"All right; I'll go," she replied, slowly rising from the bed with Marielle in her arms. Then she placed the baby in the nearby cradle.

"I'll leave you alone now," Raoul then said. "I'll come check on you later… when it's dinnertime, I'll join you in here and Jeanette will bring our meals to us."

"That sounds good," she said softly, nodding, but she didn't look up at him and instead remained focused on her newborn daughter—Erik's newborn daughter.

For a few moments more, he stood there and looked at her silently, but then he turned and exited the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Once he had left, she continued to stand over the bassinet and look down at Marielle in silence for several minutes.

_Well, Erik, our baby has been born_, she thought to herself. _Her name is Marielle… and at least as far as her deformity goes, she looks like you. Oh, I wish you were here so you could meet her… but don't worry. I'll do my very best to ensure that she does know you, however indirectly._

"Marielle," she then murmured, bending over the crib slightly and lightly kissing her sleeping infant's deformed cheek. "Marielle… my Marielle."


	2. Chapter 1: The Way Things Are

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to The Duelist's Heiress and christinedaae229 for putting this story on their alert list. I also want to thank The Nobody of War and The Duelist's Heiress (again) for adding this story to their favorites. And then The Duelist's Heiress gets thanked **_**again**_** for being my one reviewer for the prologue. Speaking of which, I'd really love reviews on this, positive or negative (as long as the negative is constructive criticism and not flat-out putting me down/flaming me)! Even if you say something as miniscule as "This was really interesting; keep going," I'll love it.**

**Anyway, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

_When we two parted  
>In silence and tears,<br>Half broken-hearted,  
>To sever for years,<br>Pale grew thy cheek and cold,  
>Colder thy kiss;<br>Truly that hour foretold  
>Sorrow to this.<em>

_The dew of the morning  
>Sank chill on my brow—<br>It felt like the warning  
>Of what I feel now.<br>Thy vows are all broken,  
>And light is thy fame:<br>I hear thy name spoken,  
>And share in its shame.<em>

Shame—an emotion Christine always felt whenever she read the poem currently before her, _When We Two Parted_ by Lord Byron. For whenever she read this poem, she was reminded of Erik and how deeply she had hurt him in both times that she had ended up abandoning him. There were occasionally times when she felt as if Erik was Lord Byron and she was the woman to whom he was speaking in this poem, for she felt as if he might say something along the lines of _When We Two Parted_ if ever they happened to encounter each other again.

_They name thee before me,  
>A knell to mine ear;<br>A shudder comes o'er me—  
>Why wert thou so dear?<br>They know not I knew thee,  
>Who knew thee too well:—<br>Long, long shall I rue thee  
>Too deeply to tell.<em>

This particular stanza of the poem made her think about how Erik surely didn't want anything to do with her… and surely regretted ever trusting her, loving her, wanting to be with her. It made her remember the element of her abandonment which she regretted most—losing not only Erik himself, but also his love and his trust.

_In secret we met—  
>In silence I grieve<br>That thy heart could forget,  
>Thy spirit deceive.<br>If I should meet thee  
>After long years,<br>How should I greet thee?—  
>With silence and tears.<em>

Silence and tears—Erik surely would bring forth those two things if ever they happened to meet once more. There would also be tears on her end, but certainly not silence… she would try her best to apologize to him, she would try to beg for his forgiveness… but he probably would give her no response. There was only one thing she could think of which might make him say something to her…

"Excusez-moi, Madame la Comtesse."

Upon hearing that soft, musical voice which gave her so much pleasure, Christine turned around and looked to the source of the voice—Marielle, now twenty years of age, who had grown into the most incredible woman Christine had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Marielle, her daughter. Marielle, Erik's daughter.

In that moment, Marielle was dressed as she always was whenever she was doing her work about the house—she was wearing a long dress which was black and starkly plain, the typical dress for the maids in the Château deChagny, and her slightly-past-shoulder-length, wavy midnight-black hair was pulled back into a loose bun. And, as it was no matter the situation, her pure white mask rested upon the right side of her face, hiding the deformity she had inherited from the father she had never known.

As it was with every time she looked upon her secretly-most-loved child, her breath was taken away. Neither of her three older children could compare to Marielle in appearance; the sight of any of them could never make her heart squeeze in the intense way that it did whenever her gaze fell upon Marielle. She was tall and dark and beautiful… just like her father.

She smiled then, her heart swelling with the deep maternal love she felt for the young woman before her. "Yes, Marielle. What is it?"

Marielle clasped her hands in front of her, lowering her grey-green eyes slightly as to not make direct eye contact with the woman who was both her mother and her mistress. This stance, which Marielle always took when addressing someone in the deChagny family, always made Christine feel rather sad; she didn't like how her youngest child always seemed to make a point of avoiding the action of looking at her.

"I am sorry for interrupting your reading, but as you know, today is the five-year anniversary of Monsieur le Comte's father's death… and since it has been assumed that you will be going to view the grave with Monsieur le Comte later this afternoon, it is time for you to get ready. I have come to assist you in changing into the outfit which you will wear out."

"Oh, yes," Christine murmured, clearing her throat a bit and then rising to her feet. "Well, come in, then."

Nodding silently, Marielle stepped inside the bedroom and closed the door most of the way, leaving it just barely cracked open. Then she walked over to Christine's closet and sifted through the dresses before coming upon the black lace dress which Christine always wore when going to the cemetery and setting it down on the bed. Then she took out the black shoes which were worn with the dress and set them on the floor in front of the bed.

Then mother and daughter both stepped in front of Christine's three-paneled mirror, which was used whenever Christine was getting dressed, and Christine lifted up her nearly-gray curls as Marielle began unbuttoning the back of her dress.

"Would you like me to tighten your corset for you a bit?" Marielle inquired after a moment.

"That would be good, thank you."

Marielle then undid the rest of the buttons, then helped Christine as she stepped out of her dress before setting it on the bed beside the dress which Christine was about to change into. Then she untied the laces of Christine's corset, allowing them to momentarily loosen before beginning to tug on them and make them tighter than they had been before they had been untied.

For several moments, there was a silence between the two, but Christine knew that Marielle did not wish to be silent. She had much of Erik's mannerisms, so Christine was aware of how she acted when she wanted to say something but wasn't entirely willing to say it.

"Is something on your mind, Marielle?" she therefore asked, as she always did whenever she felt like encouraging her daughter to speak her mind.

In one of her three reflections in the mirror, Christine could see that Marielle frowned slightly in the background. "Are you and Monsieur le Comte also going to visit your father's grave today… even though it is not the anniversary of his death?"

This question surprised Christine, for it brought up a point she hadn't even thought about, but then she nodded. "Yes, I suppose we will. What about it?"

"Well…" Marielle momentarily bit her lip. "Just thinking about how both your and Monsieur le Comte's fathers are dead… it made me wonder."

"About what?"

Marielle glanced up, allowing their eyes to briefly meet in the mirror, before darting her gaze back down. "If it's not too bold to ask… do you think my father is dead, too?"

"It is too bold," a new voice interjected, and both women looked to see that Raoul had come to the door and opened it most of the way without being heard. He strode forward. "And if he is dead, the world has become a better place because of it. For your wretched father was a murderer, an extortionist… and above all, a rapist."

Marielle's eyes lowered even further in a gesture of embarrassment, causing Christine to feel ashamed. Every time Raoul managed to bring up that Erik was evidently a rapist, she bitterly regretted having ever lied to him about the way in which Marielle had been conceived, for being told that her father was a rapist surely made Marielle think less of Erik and perhaps even wish that she had never been born. And truthfully, Christine believed that such was Raoul's purpose in mentioning to Marielle that he at least believed Erik to be a rapist—to humiliate her, to seemingly punish her for even being alive.

After several moments had passed, Marielle took a step or two back from Christine and faced Raoul, keeping her head down as she curtsied to him. "Monsieur le Comte."

Raoul looked at her with an expression of intense dislike as she gave this courteous gesture and then briefly stood there, her head still bowed so that she wouldn't have to look back at him. Then he made a rather abrupt gesture toward the door and said in a hard tone, "Go get the roses."

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte," Marielle replied softly, curtsying again before exiting the room in order to do as she'd been told—which was to retrieve the bouquet of roses intended for his father's grave, which she had been growing in her room, as she always was whenever roses would soon be needed for a certain occasion.

He looked at the door for a moment, then closed it before picking up Christine's dress and walking over to his wife with a shake of his head. "How dare she ask anything about him."

Christine swallowed somewhat anxiously. "She's twenty years old, Raoul. It's only natural that she would want to know about him."

"Well, if she's so interested in knowing about him…" He unbuttoned the dress and then lowered it, and she stepped into it. "Why doesn't she go and try to find him?"

She lifted her hair once more as he pulled up the dress, had her put her arms inside the sleeves, and began buttoning it up. "She probably thinks you wouldn't let her."

"Hmph. She's right about that," he said, and he looked as if those four words were the most difficult he'd ever said—which, for all she knew, they were. Then he shook his head again. "The last thing this world needs is for them to meet."

Naturally, Christine fervently disagreed—she had often thought about how wonderful it would be if Erik and Marielle were able to encounter each other. But she knew that the chances of such an encounter ever taking place were incredibly slim, seeing as how Marielle had never even ventured outside the Château deChagny, so she said nothing in reference to Marielle and Erik's meeting.

"You know, I've been thinking about something for a while," she informed him as he finished buttoning her dress, at which point she released her hair and allowed it to fall once more.

"And what would this something be?" he inquired, and in her three reflections in the mirror, she could see him raise his eyebrows in interest.

She turned to him, taking his hands in hers and lightly squeezing them. "I think we really ought to look into getting Marielle married."

For several moments, he looked at her in silence as he processed her words, his expression clear of any real emotion. Then, however, his face broke into a look of terrible mirth and he laughed.

"_Marry_ her off?" he demanded incredulously, still laughing. "And how do you expect to accomplish that, exactly? Who would she marry… who would marry _her?_"

A lump of indignant frustration rose in her throat; she herself believed Marielle to be quite marriageable when taking into consideration her age and her ability to perform basic household duties in a most excellent fashion. But, of course, Raoul wasn't thinking about those particular qualities. He was only thinking of what lay beneath her mask.

"God knows she's old enough to marry, dear," she then replied, trying not to put any angry sarcasm into the word _dear_. "She's twenty. Vivienne was married by the time she was seventeen and the boys' wives were still in their teens as well. And we know full well that she's more than capable of cooking and cleaning."

"True, but no self-respecting man, rich or poor, would ever marry that girl!" he exclaimed, his laughter finally dissipating. His tone, however, was still one of amusement. "Who wants a wife with a face like hers, especially when you consider that any children she might bear could look the same?"

"Some people don't judge others by their exterior," she said quietly, turning away from him and looking at her reflection in the mirror. Though he didn't know it, her thoughts turned to Erik, that man who had given her her dearest child and who was beautiful in every way. "Some look at the heart."

"Yes, well, there's nothing worthwhile in that heart," he responded, his tone suddenly becoming rather dark. "By her very nature of being a rapechild, there's probably very little natural goodness in her."

In that moment, Christine wanted nothing more than to round on her husband, slap him soundly across his flawless face and give him a piece of her mind. She wanted to scream at him about how wrong he was about Marielle in everything he'd just said—how she wasn't a rapechild and how she was the most good-hearted soul the Comtesse had ever known.

But she couldn't, and wouldn't, come to her precious child's defense, as usual. She would instead remain silent, leading him to believe that she agreed with him, and scorn herself for being a terrible mother and a woman so weak that she hadn't even followed her heart twenty-one years earlier.

"So you see, getting her married is simply impossible," he continued after several moments had passed in which she hadn't spoken. "No… she'll just have to stay with us."

"I understand," she murmured, bowing her head slightly as tears began to sting her eyes. She hated the fate that she herself had woven for her daughter, for through her own cowardice, she had given Marielle a future that only held the promise of remaining a lowly maid, largely unnoticed and outwardly unloved.

_A maid_, she thought to herself miserably, _when by rights she should be empress of the world!_

"Now," he then said, cutting into her unhappy musings as he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed it, at the same time removing his pocketwatch from his jacket with the other hand and examining it. "It's just about time for us to go. Are you ready?"

"Yes," she replied, turning away from the mirror and brushing past him so she could pick up the cloak which she wore whenever she went to the cemetery. She put it over her shoulders before buttoning it together.

"Then let's be off," he replied, and they began making their way out of the bedroom. Upon opening the door, however, they were completely taken aback to find Marielle standing there, roses in hand.

"Oh!" Raoul exclaimed in what sounded like a mixture of horror and alarm, letting out a long breath and placing a hand over his heart. "Good God, girl, don't you know better than to be standing that close to a closed door? You'll frighten anyone who comes out half out of his mind."

Honestly, Christine was uncertain as to whether she should take her husband's statement as an insult to Marielle in regard to her face or as a generalized statement—because surely what he was saying could apply to anyone in a situation similar to Marielle.

Apparently, Marielle herself took the statement to be derisive, for what was visible of her face suddenly turned pink and she lowered her head further. "My apologies, Monsieur le Comte."

"Hmph," Raoul grunted, and if he hadn't been irritated with the young woman before him previously, he clearly was then. He then snatched the bouquet of roses out of her hand, giving no word of thanks and simply handing the bouquet to Christine.

"Thank you for growing these, Marielle," Christine then said to her daughter, picking up her husband's deliberate slack and pressing her face against the roses. She inhaled deeply, the lovely fragrance of the flowers in her hand filling her nose. "They're so lovely, as always."

Continuing to avoid the gaze of either her stepfather or her mother, Marielle gave a little curtsy. "It was my pleasure, Madame—as always."

At the sound of her daughter's mirroring her words, deliberately or not, Christine smiled softly, smelling the roses once more.

"Well, we're off to the cemetery now," Raoul then informed Marielle. "We'll be back before the afternoon is out."

"Very well, Monsieur," Marielle replied, curtsying once more. "Do give my regards to your father's spirit."

"I can't communicate with the spirits of the dead," the Comte replied rather coldly, taking Christine's hand as they brushed past the masked young woman. "That's an evil magic of which I know nothing. If your father is still alive and you ever meet him, however, I'm sure he'll be more than capable of doing such a thing…"

Upon hearing her husband insult the masked man she so dearly loved, Christine clenched her free hand into a fist. Oh, how she _hated_ it whenever Raoul took a shot at Erik, which was becoming more and more frequent as Marielle got older.

She remembered the very first time he had done so with Marielle's full knowledge, for Marielle had been present… and she remembered the look on Marielle's face when he had done so. The memory was, without question, a painful one, though it had started off innocently enough.

"_Papa, are you Marielle's father?" the conversation began, with Claude—then fifteen years old—naturally directing this question at Raoul._

_Both Raoul and Christine were rather taken aback by the query, and they both turned to look at him in surprise as Raoul asked, "What did you say?"_

"_I asked if you're Marielle's father."_

_Marielle was nearby, on her knees in front of the fireplace and building a fire for the deChagnys, and Christine saw her raise her visible eyebrow in interest while her gaze remained fixated on the work before her. Christine was aware that Marielle knew the general response Raoul would give—for though her paternal origins had never been discussed, Marielle had, even at five years old, already given unspoken indications that she knew the then-Vicomte hadn't fathered her._

_Her expression then changed to one which indicated some kind of puzzled surprise, however, as Raoul's affronted response fell upon her ears—"Absolutely _not._"_

_Claude frowned a little, his logic inexplicably turned down. "But… Mama is Marielle's mother… and you are Mama's husband. So you _have_ to be Marielle's father, don't you?"_

"_I'm not her father," Raoul insisted, his tone suddenly becoming rather angry. "Someone else is."_

"_But who?" Claude demanded incredulously. "Who could be Marielle's father?"_

"_A very bad man," the Vicomte answered, his tone and expression simultaneously darkening as he turned his eyes to Marielle, who he knew to be listening to the conversation occurring before her. "A man who is composed of nothing less than pure wickedness."_

_Christine felt a pang in her heart as she, too, looked at Marielle and saw her masked face fall. And she silently begged Raoul to stop, thinking to herself, _She's only five… she's so young… she doesn't need to be hearing this now.

"_Well, how did a man other than you get Mama pregnant?" Claude, who had a basic knowledge of how babies were made, then asked in surprise. "You're the only one who's done… that… with her."_

"_Unfortunately, my boy, that's not entirely true," Raoul said softly, a sudden wickedness beginning to gleam in his eye while he continued looking at Marielle, and Christine felt afraid of what he would do. "Have you heard of rape?"_

"_Yes… but I don't know what it is; I've never heard it discussed in enough detail that I was able to understand what it was all about."_

"_I'll tell you, then," Raoul continued. "Rape is where a man forces himself sexually on a woman. He forces her to do all those things that only married people should do—and which should only be done with the woman's consent."_

_Christine saw Marielle's face tighten in both fear and unhappiness._

"_And one evening when I was out of town," Raoul continued against Christine's silent prayers with a certain kind of horrid glee in his tone, "the bad man who is Marielle's father broke into this very house and committed that crime of rape against your poor mother. And because of it, your mother became pregnant with Marielle."_

_Marielle then began to breathe heavily, causing Christine's heart to shatter into a million pieces. The poor masked child was trying so hard not to get upset; Christine knew she was._

_All of a sudden, Christine felt a drop of moisture suddenly drop onto the hands folded in her lap and jolted as she realized that the drops were her own tears. She tried her best to stop crying, but despite all her efforts, the tears kept rolling down her cheeks and she began letting out audible sniffles._

"_Christine?" Raoul's voice suddenly came, and when she looked at him, she saw that he was gazing at her with a concerned expression on his face. "Christine, whatever is the matter?"_

_Christine licked her suddenly-dry lips so that she would be able to speak. "I… I…"_

_She couldn't continue, however; she couldn't tell him that she'd lied about Marielle's conception, no matter how badly she wanted to. All she could do was cry, shedding tears of self-loathing._

"_Oh, darling, it's all right," he then murmured warmly, coming closer to her and wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. "I know you feel awful whenever you remember that night… but it will never happen again, I promise… you'll never see that wicked Erik ever again."_

As Christine's mind turned away from her reflection and came back to the present time, she sighed a little bit and then realized, with a jolt, that she'd been distracted for a notable length of time—for she and Raoul were in one of deChagny carriages and were only a few minutes away from arriving at the cemetery. She couldn't even remember exiting the house.

_I hope Raoul hasn't been trying to talk to me_, she thought to herself, biting the inside of her cheek momentarily in a nervous gesture. _He surely thinks something is wrong with me if he has._

Upon glancing sideways at her husband, she saw that he wasn't paying her any attention, instead gazing out the window and watching the scenery they were passing. He seemed rather distracted, and there was a distance in his eyes which prevented her from trying to surmise what might be on his mind.

_More than likely, he's thinking about his father_, she thought as she looked away from him and looked at her hands, which were folded in her lap. _It's been five years since he passed, but he and Raoul were always rather close… they loved each other dearly. I'm sure Raoul still misses him very much._

Her thoughts then turned to her late father-in-law. To say that Pierre deChagny had been a kind man would be a gross understatement—he had always been ready to offer someone a warmhearted word, regardless of that person's circumstances. The older man had always had Christine's respect, but the thing which had most won him Christine's deep admiration was how he'd always been unfailingly kind to Marielle from the moment he had first met her. It both shamed and pleased Christine to remember that the only person who had ever given Marielle something which could legitimately be deemed a gift was Pierre.

_I'm sure Marielle misses him, too_, she mused to herself in a somewhat sad fashion. _After all, with him, she was treated the kindest she's ever been treated. If only Raoul had taken that particular page from his father's book… how different things could be for Marielle!_

"We're here," Raoul's voice then cut into her thoughts, and she looked up to see that, indeed, the carriage had pulled up to the cemetery's entrance and he had already exited the carriage. He was extending a hand to her.

Giving him a small smile, she took the proffered hand and allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage. And as she did, she thought about how Pierre, if he had lived to an older age and had been able to talk Raoul into allowing it, probably would have taken Marielle out of the Château deChagny sometimes—and how whenever Marielle would have gotten out of a carriage in such instances, Pierre would have offered his gentlemanly assistance without any hesitation whatsoever.

_But he's gone_, she thought to herself unhappily as she and Raoul entered the cemetery and made their way to Pierre's grave. _So he'll never do that with her… and since she's likely to never leave the Château, the odds of her ever experiencing such common courtesy are rather small. Oh, it must be terrible, having to live in such a way where you can't experience even the simplest things in life. That must be how Erik feels. Poor loves of mine!_

Upon feelings tears spring in her eyes, she squeezed them shut, but it didn't prevent the tears from falling. They instead rolled down her cheeks silently, unheeded—that is, until Raoul happened to glance over and see them.

He gently squeezed the hand which was clasped in one of his. "What's wrong, dear?"

"Oh, nothing, really," she murmured, wiping away the tears with her free hand and sniffling a bit. "I was just thinking that even though your father's been gone five years, I still miss him very much. He was such a good man."

"Yes," he said softly, squeezing her hand again. "A very good man indeed."

They then continued walking through the cemetery in silence. When they at last reached Pierre deChagny's grave, they came to a halt.

For several moments, the married couple stood there without a word, looking at the tombstone and the engraving which was on it.

_Comte Pierre deChagny  
>30 janvier 1829 - 18 mars 1902<br>Mari Dévoué et Père Aimant  
>"Lui qui a bonté plantes l'amour recueille"<em>

As Christine absorbed the quotation at the bottom of the tombstone, which had been said by St. Basil, she slowly came forward and knelt onto the soft grass, placing the roses which Marielle had grown in front of the grave.

_Thank you, Pierre, for bestowing so much kindness upon Marielle when no one else would_, she thought with a particular kind of reverence. _You have no idea how much it meant to me… how much it still means to me. I can only hope that Marielle will someday have the opportunity to meet another man like you._

**~ o ~**

**Author's Note: FYI, the inscription on Pierre's grave says the following…  
>Comte Pierre deChagny<br>30 January 1829 – 18 March 1902  
>Devoted Husband and Loving Father<br>"He who plants kindness gathers love"**


	3. Chapter 2: Raoul's Vengeance

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to IAmTheMaskYouWear and Penmora Zenith for putting this story on their alert list. Additional thanks goes to IAmTheMaskYouWear for adding this story to her favorites. Then, last but not least, I want to thank The Duelist's Heiress for once again being my only reviewer for the previous chapter. I'm not going to beg for reviews, nor am I going to say that I won't update until I get reviews from other readers. But reviews are love! (If they're nice reviews, of course.)**

**Warnings: This chapter contains some mild violence, nonconsensual sexual content, and an extremely negative portrayal of Raoul (yes, more negative than the previous chapter). If any of these things are not to your liking, please don't read this chapter. If you choose to ignore these warnings and you read the chapter anyway and you don't like what you read, don't flame me. I'm going to the trouble to warn you in advance!**

**Now, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

_What a long day_, Marielle thought to herself late several nights later as she wearily entered her bedroom, closing the door with a soft _click_ and then leaning on it for support. _And I don't even know why I'm so tired… it's not as if the work I did today was any different from the work I usually do._

She glanced around her little room as she removed her shoes and stockings, letting out a soft sigh as her feet were finally able to flex and stretch. Ever since her fourteenth birthday, she had been wearing the same pair of shoes—a pair which, for several years, had been too small for her feet. On more than one occasion, she'd somewhat tentatively asked for a pair which better fit her, but the Comte had always declined her request, saying that the shoes were of a sturdy quality and that she would only receive a new pair whenever she'd worn them out. And from the look of the shoes, such an occurrence wouldn't come anytime soon, for the shoes were, indeed, built to last a long time—they didn't look much different from the day she'd received them six years previously.

Once her feet had stretched out enough to the point where they could comfortably be at their natural length, she reluctantly moved away from her comfortable position against the door, placing her shoes underneath her bed and putting her stockings in the basket where she put her dirty garments. Then she began the process of letting her hair down, removing the pins which held it up and allowing the black waves to fall just past her shoulders while she pondered upon how she felt.

For the past week or so, she'd been feeling inexplicably tired. Everything she'd done as of late had seemed to take such effort, causing her to dread even the most mundane actions of her daily routine. Upon looking at the staircase which led her to the second floor of the servants' quarters just a few minutes ago, she'd felt like she would never get to her bedroom; those stairs had seemed to stretch to infinity.

_Maybe I'm getting sick_, she mused as she placed her hairpins atop the armoire. Then she undid the buttons at the back of her dress, stepping out of it and hanging it up so it would air out and be ready for wearing again in two days' time. _My previous illnesses, the few that I've had, have always started off with feeling more tired than usual. That's nice, I suppose, seeing as how Dr. Beaufort always tells me to have bed rest for a day or two whenever he comes to look at me when I've gotten sick. I'll soon get a chance to relax._

At that point, she divulged herself of her undergarments, dropping them into her laundry basket, and put on her white nightgown. Then she seated herself at the armoire, momentarily running her fingers through her hair before taking hold of her brush and beginning to brush her hair.

She let out a barest sigh of ecstasy as the soft bristles began running through her hair, undoing the tangles it had amassed throughout the day and making it luxuriously silky to the touch. It was somewhat strange, but she always enjoyed the feel of having her hair brushed. She supposed it was because she could remember being the age of three and still unable to brush her hair herself, thus causing her mother to have to help. The then-Vicomtesse had taken great care, brushing the entirety of Marielle's hair slowly and then, on certain occasions, dividing it into three parts and putting it into a single plait. Marielle sometimes braided her hair before going to bed at night, but somehow, it never felt quite the same as it had whenever Christine had done it.

Once she'd finished brushing her hair, it was time for the last—and, arguably, her least favorite—of her pre-bedtime activities. And so, after taking a rather deep breath, she removed her mask, gently setting it on the armoire and then inspecting her face in the mirror.

There were several reasons that, on certain occasions, Marielle didn't much care for her father—after all, he'd gotten her mother pregnant with her through rape and he'd been a criminal even before that. Her prevalent reason for not having too much regard for that man named Erik, however, was that he'd passed down his cursed face to her.

She examined her deformity in the mirror, running her fingers across the red, irregularly-formed skin with a sigh. And as she always did whenever she allowed her deformity to air out every evening, she pondered upon how much trouble her face gave her and how her situation would be at least slightly improved if she'd been fortunate enough to have a normal face.

It was no secret to Marielle that her deformity was the primary reason why the Comte deChagny so highly disliked her. Of course, he also didn't like her because she was the product of a union between his wife and another man, but she rather liked to think that he would have disliked her less if she hadn't been born deformed. And maybe, just maybe, she would have been taken into the Château deChagny as a member of the deChagny family instead of a maid…

_But more than that_, she thought with a sigh as she continued running her fingers along her deformity, as if that would make it go away, _I would be beautiful if I wasn't deformed. Thus I would probably be allowed out of the house at least once in a while… I would meet a good man who would think me so beautiful that he'd have no choice but to make it his ultimate goal to make me his…_

Marielle honestly had no interest in having a man "make her his"—that is, she didn't particularly care about becoming a man's sexual partner. From what she knew of sexual intimacy, it wasn't as wonderful or impressive as some of her fellow maids in the past had made it seem; she felt as if it was merely a way for a man to display power over a woman—and, on some occasions, a way for a man to continue his bloodline by getting a woman pregnant. She did, however, desire a man's love. She wanted to meet a man who would respect her, spend as much time as possible with her, kiss her…

_Yes, kissing_, she thought to herself, moving her fingers from her deformity to her lips. _I don't care much about sex… but kissing seems like it would be nice._

All of a sudden, her bedroom door opened, and she immediately turned away so that the one entering her room wouldn't see her deformity, taking hold of her mask and placing it back on her face. Then she rose, keeping her back turned to he who had arrived as he closed the door.

"Monsieur le Comte," she said softly, curtsying and feeling slightly awkward while doing so because her master could, at that point, only see her from the back.

For several moments, there was a silence, but then came a harsh, simple command: "Come here."

Taking a soft, deep breath, she then turned to face Raoul, looking at him for several moments before walking over to him. She could see the outline of his erection through his bedtime trousers and felt her face heat up.

At almost the precise moment at which she arrived in front of him, he suddenly reached out and slapped her unmasked, undeformed cheek with all his might, causing her to stagger slightly in surprise.

"You made a good attempt to hide that hideous face from me," he informed her coldly as she regained her balance and placed a hand on her hot cheek. "But it wasn't good enough. How many times have I told you not to let me see what's under that mask?"

She swallowed hard, removing her hand from her cheek as she curtsied again, avoiding his steely gaze. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I was just trying to air it out—"

"I don't care what you were doing," he interrupted her harshly. "You ought to know that you shouldn't have the mask off at half-past midnight… you know that's the time I come to you."

Before she had the chance to say anything in response, he slapped her again, the smacking sound of the cruel skin-on-skin contact resounding through the entirety of her small room. She only took one step backward before managing to catch herself this time, feeling tears of pain and embarrassment rush to her eyes.

"Je regrette, Monsieur," she whispered then. "Je regrette."

"Hmph," he grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "You have much to apologize for, don't you? Your carelessness, your face, your father's actions which brought your wretched being into this world…"

Her face grew hotter as she bowed her head as low as possible, giving him no response. In that moment, any kind thought she'd ever had about her father vanished from her head as she thought about how dearly she paid for his sins on a regular basis.

"Now," he then said, cutting into her thoughts. "On your knees."

Upon hearing this command, a lump rose in her throat. She rid herself of it with a gulp, however, and took a deep breath as she did as she'd been instructed.

Once she was on her knees, she was eye-level with his erection, and it appeared that his smacking her gotten him more aroused, for it was more obvious than it had been several moments before. And with shaking hands that she hoped he wouldn't notice, she reached out and unbuttoned his trousers, then pulled them down slightly in order to free his manhood from its confines.

At that point, she reached out once more, taking hold of his erection and beginning to pleasure him, one hand stroking him while the other one massaged, as he'd instructed her to do because that was the way he liked best.

"Ugh," he groaned, but it wasn't a groan of frustration, anger, or any other kind of bad emotion; he emitted such a noise out of perverse pleasure. "That's right… just like that…"

For several minutes, things continued in this fashion, and Marielle did her best to avoid looking at what she was doing. She was ashamed by how low she'd allowed herself to become since this torture had first begun five years earlier—and she could remember the first time the Comte had entered her bedroom, at a time which had been well past decent.

_Absolutely out of nowhere, she felt something grab her shoulder in a shockingly rough fashion, jolting her awake with a slight gasp of alarm._

_Once she'd gathered her nerves, she frowned a little as she made out the outline which backed several steps away from her bed and then stood before her in the darkness._

"_M-Monsieur le Comte?" she whispered then. "What are you doing in here?"_

"_Put on your mask," Raoul responded in a rather harsh tone, not answering her query but speaking to her all the same. "I can still see your face, dark as it may be in here."_

"_I… I'm sorry," she said, still puzzled as to what he was doing in her bedroom at such a late hour, for she looked at the clock which hung on the nearby wall and saw that it was 12:30 in the morning. She rose from the bed, picking up her mask from the armoire and then putting it back on. "Now… why are you here at this time of night?"_

"_Don't question me," he snapped. "I am the master of this household; I shall do whatever I please."_

"_Yes, Monsieur," she replied, even more taken aback than before. "I apologize. But… has something happened?"_

"_Hmph. Well, I suppose something has happened, in a way. I've had a revelation." He paused. "Get back in the bed."_

_She did as he'd instructed, getting back on the bed and sitting up straight. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so she could see that there was a rather strange expression on his face._

"_What kind of revelation have you had, Monsieur?" she asked then, and in that moment, she began to feel an unexplainable anxiety. Why did he feel it was necessary to share his revelation with her, especially in the middle of the night?_

_He cleared his throat and straightened himself. "As you know, your father raped the Comtesse. That's how she got pregnant with you."_

_A lump rose in Marielle's throat as she bowed her head slightly. "Yes, Monsieur le Comte. I am all too aware of that fact."_

"_Yes. Well, I've come to realize that I haven't been able to wreak my vengeance upon your father for the crime he committed."_

_She nodded in a somewhat solemn fashion, understanding his need for revenge even though the action for which he wanted revenge made her embarrassed and upset. "That's understandable. After all, no one has seen him around here since he… did what he did."_

"_Ah, but my revelation lies in the fact that I don't _need_ him to be around for me to avenge my wife."_

_Upon hearing this, she looked up at him in surprise. "You—you don't?"_

"_No." He began walking then, taking slow steps toward her. "I only need you."_

"_Me?" she echoed as he continued walking over to her, her chest tightening a bit. "But… why do you need me?"_

"_Because…" He came to a stop and looked at her, that strange expression still on his face. "I can't violate someone else and get revenge on Erik."_

"_Violate?" she exclaimed, straightening herself a bit in a gesture of surprise and alarm as a hand went to her throat. "You don't mean…"_

_Her voice trailed off and her face grew hot, and he responded, his voice suddenly rather low, "That is exactly what I mean. As he raped my wife… so I will rape his daughter. It's rather Biblical, don't you think?—an eye for an eye, you know."_

_Complete shock and embarrassment prevented her from replying. She could hardly believe the situation in which she suddenly found herself… the Comte was intending to deflower her!_

_When he then reached out to her, she quickly moved away, getting out of bed and standing out of his arm's reach uneasily._

"_Come back here!" he snapped at her, lunging toward her. She just barely managed to dodge him, letting out a gasp as she did. "You _will_ do this!"_

"_Wait!" she cried out as she continued dodging him. "Monsieur… please think about this. Do you really want to do such an awful thing? I know my father did it to my mother… but if you don't do this to me, you have the chance to prove yourself the better man!"_

"_I _am_ the better man," he snarled, suddenly grabbing hold of her and practically throwing her onto the bed. It was then that he slapped her for the first time, doing it so hard that he nearly knocked the wind out of her. "And don't you dare think otherwise!"_

_Tears of pain from his violence welled in her eyes. "I—I don't, Monsieur, I don't… but please… _please_ don't do this. If you stop now, I won't tell Madame la Comtesse… she'll never know you were even here!"_

"_She'll never know, anyway," he growled, stopping her in another attempt to get off the bed by pinning her down with his body, and she shivered at the new and unwanted contact. "If you don't let me do this… or if you tell _anyone_… you'll be thrown out of this house before you can even blink. And where will you go then, hmm?"_

"_You—you wouldn't," she whispered in terror, a lump rising in her throat as the tears in her eyes threatened to spill out even more. "You wouldn't make me leave!"_

"_Try me." The challenge was cold, emotionless, and it was then that she realized he wasn't bluffing._

_At this revelation, she knew that she was trapped—she had to let him do with her what he pleased and she had to keep it secret. For she couldn't risk being thrown out of the Château deChagny; after all, it was the only home she had ever known and she couldn't think of anywhere she'd be able to go if the Comte threw her out._

_Thus she made no movement and no sound, simply lying there and waiting for him to move forward with his vengeance against the father she'd never known._

_Upon realizing that he'd won, he moved off her and stood up, a cruelly triumphant grin on his face. "Undress."_

_Swallowing hard, she rose from the bed herself and removed her nightgown, noticing with dismay and embarrassment that he was taking off his nightclothes as well. She felt her face grow almost unbearably hot and knew that she was blushing violently—after all, she'd never seen a naked man before, even in pictures._

_Once they'd both undressed, they stood in front of each other completely naked for several moments. Raoul scanned his stepdaughter up and down, his sick smile widening as he did, and Marielle's humiliation increased when she saw his manhood quickly go from flaccid to erect._

"_Well, your face may be ugly, but your body is very much a different story!" he informed her with a laugh, shoving her back onto the bed. He then climbed atop her, and she whimpered at the feel of his nude body against hers. "Just the sight of you tells me that you're going to please me…"_

_Naturally, Marielle had hoped that the next action to be done would be his taking her, but such a wish was futile. He instead placed his hands on her, running them up and down every inch of her body, paying particular attention to her breasts, her thighs, and the secret spot between them._

_When his hand first went between her legs, she let out a long, shuddering breath, her face feeling as if someone had poured gasoline onto it and then put a flame to it. She'd heard from "experienced" maids that women were supposed to feel pleasure whenever men touched them in such an intimate place, but to her, such a thing didn't feel good at all. The only thought in her head was that she wanted him to finish with her and leave._

_After several minutes of exploring the new terrain of her body, he removed his hands from her, and she felt him position himself at her entrance. And then, with no warning whatsoever, he entered her in one sharp thrust._

_She cried out rather loudly, the pain of his breaking her virginal barrier hitting her full-force, and was almost immediately greeted by his smart blow to her good cheek._

"_Hush, stupid girl!" he hissed, sounding as if he was snarling. "You'll wake up the entire house making noise like that."_

"_I—I'm sorry," she whimpered, tears beginning to roll down her face. "It hurts…"_

"_Well, of course it does," he replied in an it's-so-obvious tone, thrusting inside of her and causing her to wince. "A woman's first experience is always painful."_

The maids lied, then_, she thought to herself as he continued thrusting, gritting her teeth in order to stop herself from making any kind of noise which expressed discomfort._ They said it would feel good if the man did a good job… they lied about all of it…

_After several minutes, he groaned and she felt his member harden and expand inside of her, and the new feeling made her whimper in both discomfort and anxiety. What did that mean?_

Marielle was abruptly pulled out of her reverie when Raoul suddenly slapped her, causing her both to jolt and to feel a stinging pain on her unmasked, undeformed cheek.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice somewhat hoarse with arousal. "You're supposed to have moved on to the next part by now!"

Looking down, she saw that his seed had begun to leak from the tip of his manhood and swallowed somewhat hard. Yes, she was supposed to move on to something different whenever he got that aroused…

She let out the softest sigh possible, then reluctantly leaned forward and slowly took him into her mouth, inwardly cringing at the salty taste of his arousal on her tongue. He moaned and shuddered, taking tight hold of her hair as he thrust once into her mouth.

Keeping her eyes closed so she wouldn't have to look at what she was doing, she sucked on the hard proof of his arousal. She somewhat wished the Comtesse would walk in right then—although, knowing her luck, the older woman would only think that Marielle had initiated these nighttime atrocities instead of accusing her husband of being inappropriate toward the masked young woman.

Raoul grew more aroused by her actions, as he was supposed to, and once she'd pleasured him in this way for several minutes, he moaned once more, retightening his grip on her black waves and continuously thrusting into her mouth, causing her to further take him in. She could feel him hardening in her mouth and knew that it wouldn't be long before he experienced his first orgasm of the evening.

"Oh, God… oh, _God_…" the Comte moaned, thrusting so vigorously that he almost kept setting off Marielle's gag reflex due to how far in he was making himself go. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, silently willing herself not to choke, as doing such would only result in more hitting.

It only took a few more rough thrusts before he came with a moan, his warm seed spilling into Marielle's mouth and traveling to the back of her throat. Marielle kept him in her mouth and held her breath, as she'd learned that doing such would prevent her from gagging—for the first time he'd imposed this particular torture on her, she'd learned the hard way that whenever he finished, she wasn't permitted to let his seed go anywhere except her mouth, nor was she allowed to choke on it. She remembered how severely he'd slapped her when she'd made her mistakes… she'd felt the pain from it even the next day.

When he'd finished emptying himself into her mouth, she took his now-flaccid manhood out of her mouth, swallowing down his seed and then slowly rising to her feet. She saw that his brown eyes were clouded with lust.

"Take that nightgown off," he ordered her, his voice low and somewhat frightening. "_Now._"

She nodded silently, taking a soft, deep breath as she pulled off her nightgown, lifting it over her head and then releasing her hold on it, allowing it to fall to the floor.

He roughly pushed her onto the bed, removing his own nightclothes in a messy and hurried fashion. Then he joined her on the bed, growling with newfound desire at the sight of her full, round breasts, narrow hips, and shapely thighs. What he'd told her five years earlier was right—although many people wouldn't find her face aesthetically pleasing, any man who wouldn't be attracted to her body would either be blind or homosexual.

The nobleman wasted no time in moving forward with what he wanted, thrusting his newly-hardened manhood inside of her in an abrupt and surprisingly painful fashion. Then he immediately began thrusting, taking tight hold of her chin when he saw that she was trying to look away from what was happening.

"Look at me," he hissed, turning her face so that their eyes met.

Without a word and with a hard swallow, she did as he instructed and kept her gaze fixated on him, trying to keep her expression from indicating that he was giving her any kind of discomfort. For she knew that when he had her look at him, he was trying to see any unhappy face she might make; he got a certain kind of satisfaction from knowing that what he did to her bothered her.

She silently observed him for the next several minutes as he continued moving about inside of her, watching his face contort into several different pleasured expressions. She felt his member begin swelling inside of her and knew that he was getting close to reaching his climax.

"Ohh… _yes!_" he groaned at last, emitting a long sigh as he released his seed within her.

Upon feeling his release, she involuntarily cringed, and though he was cloudy-headed with pleasure, he saw it and laughed, for he knew what it meant.

"Didn't like that, did you?" he inquired, not really expecting a response and thus not feeling disappointed when she didn't say anything. Then he moved away from her, throwing her nightgown to her and beginning to redress himself.

Marielle took hold of her nightgown and quickly pulled it over her head, covering herself up once more, and then got back in bed, burrowing herself under the covers. She turned on her side so that she could no longer see him, avoiding the lustful gaze which remained upon her while he wordlessly pulled his nightshirt back on.

Relief filled her to the brim as the sound of her door opening and closing reached her ears. She remained still, however, until the sound of his footsteps moving away from her bedroom grew so faint that she could no longer hear them.

Silent tears began rolling down her cheeks at that point, and she sniffled softly as she buried her face against her pillow. And just as she had most every night during the five years that she'd been abused in such a manner, she felt completely miserable.

_If only I were beautiful_, she thought to herself sadly. _The Comte might still do this to me, but at least then I would likely be permitted to go out of the house… and if that were allowed, there would come a day when I'd leave the Château and never, ever come back. Someone—I don't know who, but someone—would be willing to take me in. But I'm not beautiful… so I'll never be allowed to leave… and even if I did leave, I'd have nowhere to go… no one would be willing to help someone with a face like mine._

With these thoughts in her head, the masked young woman cried softly into the early hours of the morning, only finding solace when her tired mind and body finally gave themselves over to the world of sleep.


	4. Chapter 3: A Twist and a Turn

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to Sweater Monkey and lissa . wade (I had to add the spaces because FanFiction is silly) for adding this story to their favorites. Additional thanks goes to The Duelist's Heiress for reviewing the last chapter.**

**Now, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

Several days later, Marielle found herself in one of the beautiful bathrooms in the main part of the Château deChagny, vomiting into the toilet with such violence that her whole body shook. All morning as she'd gone through her chores, she'd been feeling a rather strong burst of nausea running through her body, causing her to work more slowly than usual—but nothing had resulted from the feeling of sickness until that point.

When she'd thrown up the whole of the small breakfast she'd had at the beginning of the day, she leaned back a little, closing her eyes and emitting a long sigh as she flushed the toilet. She felt somewhat dizzy and tired… she suddenly had no desire except to retreat to her room and sleep for the remainder of the day.

There were several knocks at the door.

"Marielle?" the Comtesse's voice came from the other side. "Jeanette told me you were in here. Are you feeling ill?"

Marielle cleared her throat and let out a little sigh as she opened her eyes. She turned her attention to the closed door. "I am a bit, Madame, but I'll be all right. I suppose I've recently eaten something my stomach didn't agree with."

"Oh, I see. Would you like to take the rest of the day off?"

"I appreciate the offer, Madame, but that won't be necessary. I'll be out in a moment."

"All right," the Comtesse agreed with some reluctance. "Let me know if you start to feel worse, all right? You don't need to be working when you don't feel well."

"Yes, Madame. Merci."

After several moments, Marielle's mother gave no response, leading Marielle to believe that the Comtesse had evidently walked away. So, after taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet and walked over to the sink, removing her mask and setting it on the counter as she rinsed her face off with cool water.

Once she'd done this, she picked up the nearby handtowel and dried her face off, replacing her mask and then exiting the bathroom. She took the handtowel to the laundry room and set it in one of hampers, then returned to the bedroom the Comte and Comtesse shared, where she'd been making the bed and collecting dirty clothes and linens before she'd gotten sick.

Emitting a soft sigh, she picked up the folded sheet, shaking it out so that there were no wrinkles before setting it atop the mattress and straightening it so that it was on the bed properly. Then she tucked the ends of the sheet underneath the mattress and put the rest of the bed linens on the bed.

The bed having been made, she picked up the dirty clothes and linens, which she'd previously set in a pile on the floor, and exited the room, closing the door behind her and then making her way back downstairs to the laundry room to drop off the laundry she'd just collected.

Upon looking at the nearby clock on the wall, Marielle saw that it was 10:15 in the morning. That meant she was behind schedule, for she was supposed to make a fire for the Comte and Comtesse in the parlor at 10:00. The Comte would certainly be displeased at her tardiness…

Clearing her throat and attempting to brace herself for the harsh words which would soon be coming her way, she headed into the parlor, where the deChagnys were sitting quietly. The Comtesse was embroidering something, while the Comte was reading that day's newspaper.

The sound of Marielle's picking up the firewood holder and carrying it over to the fireplace alerted the Comte to her presence, and he looked at her in a rather stern fashion as he pulled out his pocketwatch and examined the time.

"You're late," he said severely. "I should have had a fire fifteen minutes ago."

Marielle opened her mouth to begin apologizing, but the Comtesse intervened, saying, "Raoul, don't be so hard on her. She doesn't feel well."

"Well, she obviously doesn't feel so unwell that she can't work," Raoul said evenly, giving his wife a somewhat hard look. "And if that's the case, she should be working at the same pace as she would if she felt entirely healthy."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur le Comte," Marielle then said softly, not looking at him as she began to place wood and some shredded paper into the fireplace. "I'll have this fire all lit up for you in a few moments."

"Hmph," Raoul murmured in a rather annoyed tone, but said nothing more and instead watched her with contemptuous eyes as she continued her work.

She took hold of the nearby box of matches and pulled one match out, striking it and then lighting the wood and paper in various places. As the fire began to spread throughout all of the wood, she then closed the small iron doors, examining the fire for several moments before making to rise.

Before she had the chance to get to her feet, however, she was suddenly hit with an incredible wave of dizziness, causing her to let out a somewhat short breath and close her eyes, a hand going to her forehead.

"What are you doing now?" Raoul then demanded, sounding even more aggravated than he had previously. "The fire's lit; get on with the rest of your work. You're already behind schedule."

"Are you all right, Marielle?" Christine then asked, knitting her eyebrows together in a concerned expression even though her daughter couldn't see it. She scooted further forward in her seat as if making to go over to Marielle.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine… I just…" Marielle emitted a long sigh as she kept her eyes closed, silently willing her lightheadedness to go away. "I just got dizzy all of a sudden, that's all."

The Comtesse frowned a little, another expression which Marielle didn't see. "Are you sure you don't need to stop your work for the rest of the day? Jeanette can take on your responsibilities if you're feeling too bad."

"I'll be fine, thank you. Just give me a moment to collect myself."

For several moments, all was silent as Marielle remained still and the deChagnys observed her, one with a somewhat irritated expression and the other with a worried expression. Then Marielle opened her eyes, clearing her throat and rising to her feet. She straightened herself.

"All right now?" the Comtesse asked gently. Raoul rolled his eyes slightly at her tone.

"Yes, Madame." Marielle cleared her throat once more and shook her head a bit as she picked up the firewood holder and set it back in the corner of the parlor where it had previously been. "I apologize… I don't know what's wrong with me today…"

"There's always something wrong with you," the Comte muttered, speaking under his breath but not so quietly that his words didn't reach his wife's or Marielle's ears. "You're a rapechild, after all."

Marielle gave no indication that she'd heard what he'd said, instead exiting the parlor and heading back to the laundry room, where she would begin to wash the dirty clothes and linens that she'd collected earlier.

After entering the laundry room, she separated all the clothes and linens into separate piles based on their color and whether or not they needed to be washed in a delicate cycle in the electric washing machine which the deChagnys had just purchased about a year previously. Then she turned on the washing machine, setting the water to run hot and then putting in some laundry soap before beginning to put light-colored items into the machine.

Once she'd placed the first load of items needing to be washed in the machine, Marielle made her way toward the area of the Château which contained the servants' quarters, specifically going to her bedroom so that she might lie down for a bit before the time came for her to begin cooking the day's lunch. For she still felt a little unsteady; her head felt as if it was the heaviest part of her body and, as she had for several days now, she felt rather tired.

_I hope the Comte doesn't catch me resting_, she thought to herself as she reached the bottom of the staircase which led to the servants' quarters. She slowly began ascending the stairs. _He won't be very happy if he sees that I'm not doing something useful…_

Upon reaching a point on the staircase which was several steps below the top stair, she crossed paths with Jeanette, the deChagnys' other maid and the only other maid who had been at the Château throughout the entirety of Marielle's life—all the others had come and gone, eventually either marrying or going to serve another family.

"Oh!" Jeanette gasped as she and Marielle saw each other, jolting a little as her face paled slightly and she placed a hand on her heart. These actions didn't surprise Marielle, for she knew that Jeanette was afraid of her—after all, she'd seen her deformed face mere moments after she'd been born.

"I'm sorry," Marielle said to Jeanette then, trying to be nice in order to show that there was no need for the older woman to be frightened of her, as she had done from the time she'd been able to speak. "I didn't mean to surprise you like that."

"D-Don't worry about it," Jeanette stammered a bit, sounding as if she'd just seen a rather terrifying ghost. She rather made a point of distancing herself from Marielle as much as she could, practically pressing herself against the wall as she began going down the staircase. "I—I'm sorry I was in your way…"

And then, with great haste, Jeanette descended the rest of the staircase and made her way to some other portion of the Château, disappearing from Marielle's view.

_Well, at least she didn't scream or anything like that_, Marielle thought with a sigh, looking after Jeanette for several moments even after the other maid was no longer in her sights. _She's done that on more than one occasion in the past…_

She then turned her attention back toward the path she'd been making for herself before she and Jeanette had encountered each other, taking hold of the rail as she took the final few steps up the staircase.

Upon reaching the top of the staircase, Marielle was suddenly overcome with an abrupt wave of dizziness, her vision blurring. She drew in her breath sharply, taking hold of the corner of the wall which separated the staircase from the rest of the servants' quarters with one hand in a desperate attempt to keep herself upright.

The feeling of lightheadedness was too powerful for her to fight, however, and her vision blurred further as she lost her grip on the corner, dimly aware that she was falling backwards but unable to do anything to stop it.

Her world was completely consumed by darkness before her body even came into contact with the stairs.

~ o ~

When Marielle came to, she found herself in her room, lying in bed with the blanket covering her. Her mask had, at one point or another, been removed and was resting on the armoire.

For a few brief moments, she tried to remember something, _anything_, that had occurred between the time when she'd lost consciousness and the moment in which she then found herself. Such an attempt was in vain, however; she didn't know anything that had happened since she'd passed out—except for the obvious fact that she'd been moved from the staircase to her bedroom.

Marielle then heard voices speaking in low tones just outside her bedroom door. She propped herself up slightly with her elbows, trying to focus on who was talking and what they were saying, for she felt certain that her current condition, whatever it was, was the topic of discussion.

She was able to make out the Comtesse saying the word _how_ in a rather emphatic, questioning tone, but then she lost any and all concentration she'd had as a relentless wave of nausea struck her.

Relief filled her as she hastily peered over one side of the bed and saw that an empty basin was sitting on the floor. She reached out and took hold of it with both hands, bringing it closer to her head and then beginning to vomit into it.

After a moment, Marielle discovered that the Comtesse had been talking with her husband and Dr. Beaufort, for her bedroom door opened and all three of them entered. Marielle's face grew hot even as her vomiting continued; it was embarrassing that her illness was suddenly something of a public spectacle.

The Comtesse took her by surprise then, almost immediately coming over to her and sitting herself on her knees beside her on the bed.

"It's all right," she murmured to Marielle, her tone rather soothing as she lightly rubbed her daughter's back. "Just let it out… there you go."

When Marielle had stopped throwing up, she let out a little sigh, leaning forward slightly and beginning to set the basin back on the floor, for she felt too weak to get up from bed and rinse the basin out in the adjoining bathroom. Christine surprised her again, however, by reaching out and taking hold of the basin.

"Here," she said then. "I'll rinse it out for you."

Raoul took a step forward in protest. "Christine—"

"Don't worry about it, Raoul," the Comtesse said to her husband, moving off the bed and beginning to head for the bathroom. "It's all right."

"You don't need to do that," the nobleman responded, his expression indicating that the sight of his wife holding a basin filled with vomit offended his aristocratic sensibilities. "She can do it herself."

"Not at the moment, she can't, dear," Christine replied in a gentle tone that also contained a firmness which indicated that the subject wasn't open for debate. "She doesn't feel well."

In that moment, even though she knew it wasn't really right, Marielle felt secretly glad for her still-mysterious-to-her illness. For whenever she was sick, the Comtesse made any and all decisions concerning her and was absolutely unbending in them—and whenever the Comtesse was the one making the decisions, she always got treated a little better than normal.

For several moments following, there was silence except for the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink water running as Christine emptied out the basin and then rinsed it out in the sink. Then she returned, placing the basin back where it had previously been on the floor.

"Thank you, Madame," Marielle said softly, not meeting the Comtesse's eyes and thus not allowing her to see just how grateful she felt.

Christine gave no verbal response, instead giving the deformed young woman a soft, brief smile that she didn't see and then standing beside Raoul once more. When Marielle then looked up, she saw that the Comtesse and Dr. Beaufort looked rather concerned, while a somewhat dark scowl covered Raoul's features.

"Put your mask back on," the Comte then ordered Marielle, his eyes briefly turning their focus onto the mask, which still rested on the armoire. "No one is interested in seeing your face."

"Monsieur le Comte…" Dr. Beaufort began to protest, but Marielle cut him off.

"It's all right, Doctor. I understand Monsieur le Comte's aversion."

Then, going slowly so she wouldn't rouse any feelings of dizziness or nausea that might still be dormant within her, she rose from the bed and took the few steps to the armoire, picking up her mask and placing it back on her face. Then she returned to her bed, sitting up straight in it as she pulled the covers over her legs and up to her waist.

Dr. Beaufort then cleared his throat, placing his hands behind his back and taking a rather formal stance. "Marielle. Do you know why you've been feeling ill today?"

Marielle raised her visible eyebrow at the doctor. "Well, I would imagine it's because I've recently eaten something that didn't entirely agree with me. That's generally what makes me vomit."

"Yes, well, that isn't the case this time." The doctor paused. "While you were unconscious, I did a full examination on you to ensure that there wasn't anything wrong with you besides your nausea and dizziness and… Marielle, you're pregnant."

The masked young woman felt her face abruptly drain of all color. "Pregnant…?"

"Judging by the size of the fetus, you're about seven weeks along," he continued, apparently undeterred by her brief interjection. "But since you've apparently never ventured outside the Château, we all can't help but wonder… _how_ did this happen, my dear?"

At this question, Marielle's face grew hot, for she knew exactly how she'd gotten pregnant. She'd only been with one man; only the Comte could be the father of her unborn child…

But, of course, she couldn't share this information. The Comte's threat ran as clearly through her mind as if he'd just made it to her the day before: "if you tell _anyone_… you'll be thrown out of this house before you can even blink."

Now that she was pregnant, she certainly couldn't afford to lose the only home she'd ever known. There was nowhere else she could go… if she told the truth and was thrown out, she wouldn't be able to provide a home for herself and her unborn child. She would have to lie about the nature of the child's conception.

"Well, I… I have been outside the Château, once," she finally responded, her voice dropping to a low whisper as she bowed her head, ashamed at the desperate nature of her situation. "I wanted so badly to see what the outside world was like and I knew I'd never have permission to do so, so I snuck out one night."

Because she kept her head down, she didn't see the expressions of surprise which marked all three of the countenances which stood before her. Of course, Christine and Dr. Beaufort were surprised for a different reason than Raoul—they were surprised that she'd apparently left the Château, while Raoul was surprised that she had remembered his threat and was actually listening to it.

"And you met a man, did you?" Dr. Beaufort inquired gently.

Marielle nodded, still not looking up at the three people in front of her. "Yes, at a tavern. I don't really know why I picked to go to a tavern; I didn't have any money. But as it turned out, I didn't need any, because this man saw me and offered to buy me a drink."

"I see. And what happened then?"

"Well, we each had several drinks while we talked. And after a while, he… he told me that he found me attractive. He said he was staying in a nearby hotel and wanted me to… join him for the remainder of the evening."

Dr. Beaufort nodded. "Judging by how much you remember, I suppose you weren't very drunk. Had you consumed alcohol before this occasion?"

"Once," Marielle lied, for she'd never tasted alcohol before in her life. "I was clearing the dinner table one evening and saw that Madame la Comtesse had left her wine glass mostly full. I didn't want to let it go to waste by dumping it out and I was curious to see how it tasted, so I drank it. So I suppose that helped my tolerance and made me less inebriated."

"Very well," Dr. Beaufort said. "Continue your story, if you would, my dear."

The young woman cleared her throat. "Well, after the man had made his offer to me, I didn't really hesitate to take it. I mean, we didn't know each other very well at all, but I didn't think I'd get another opportunity to get out of the Château, so I wanted to experience everything I could. Especially… especially _that_, the act he was implying… because I didn't think that, with my face, any man would ever want me."

A look which was a mixture of compassion and sadness crossed Christine's face. She felt terrible for her daughter; she hated that she felt as if she would never be desired because of her appearance. She especially felt bad because she knew that, thanks to the shallow nature of most of the human race, what Marielle believed was most likely true.

Marielle then sighed and concluded her lie by saying, "I know it was wrong… I know that such things shouldn't occur between people who aren't married. And I'm sorry I did it. I'm sorry I even snuck out to begin with. And it may not be of much help to say this, but for what it's worth, I didn't enjoy… doing it. It happened really fast and it hurt and it wasn't at all like I thought it'd be. I thought it would be romantic… but I was wrong."

"I don't suppose you caught this man's name?" Dr. Beaufort inquired.

She didn't give a verbal response; she merely shook her head.

"Well, why this comes as much of a surprise to anyone is beyond me, really," the Comte suddenly interjected with a scoff, and Marielle looked up at him to see that he was shaking his head and had folded his arms across his chest. He fixed her with a look of contempt. "We should have known something like this would happen someday. After all, this is the kind of behavior which is so typical of someone of Erik's bloodline. She's her father's daughter through and through!"

"Don't, Raoul," Christine protested with surprising fervor as she saw the look of shame which crossed Marielle's features, the way in which she bowed her head once again. She placed a hand on her husband's arm. "She's learned her lesson and she's apologized for what she did. This experience has hurt her enough already… there's no need to deepen the wound."

"Hmph," Raoul grunted, giving Marielle one more contemptuous glare before turning on his heel and exiting the bedroom.

Tears filled Marielle's eyes. She wasn't surprised that he was unhappy she was carrying his child; after all, if the child looked like him, it could expose the secret she unwillingly shared with him. But the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd brought her father into the conversation… it was if he believed that she'd gotten pregnant on purpose so she might, at one point or another, underhandedly inform his wife of what atrocities he had committed. And she certainly hadn't done that; she'd only done as he'd demanded, letting him take her whenever he pleased and keeping everyone else in the dark about his crime against her. She'd even _lied_, made it look as if she'd had an encounter with some stranger, to make him look as if he'd done nothing wrong!

"It's all right, Marielle," the Comtesse said in a comforting tone when she saw the young woman's tears, cutting into Marielle's thoughts as she came over to the bed and sat next to her. "Don't worry about him… he's just upset that you haven't been entirely honest with us. But it's all right; don't feel as if you've done anything wrong. You were just curious about some things and you… you didn't think there was any way for you to learn about them unless you took matters into your own hands."

Marielle didn't say anything in response, instead giving a little shrug as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Now, Marielle," Dr. Beaufort then said, causing Marielle to look up at him. "You ought to take the rest of the day to just stay in bed and relax; you haven't felt well all day and you were just given some rather monumental news. Now, from the way things have gone so far, it seems rather likely that you'll experience some rather intense nausea and vomiting. In order to combat that, I recommend that you get your own personal supply of salty snacks, like crackers, and keep them here in your room. Then have a few before you get out of bed in the morning so your nausea can be combated from the very start of the day. And, of course, it's very important that you keep yourself well-hydrated. Drink plenty of water and milk."

She nodded. "Yes, Doctor, I'll do that."

"Very good." Dr. Beaufort then began heading for the bedroom door, making to exit. "I'll come back in about a month to ensure that everything's going all right; by that point you'll be near the end of your first trimester. If something happens before that, though, of course you should call for me."

"I will."

"Thank you, Doctor," the Comtesse then said to the doctor, going over to him and kissing him once on each cheek as he did the same with her.

"My pleasure, Madame la Comtesse. I'll show myself out… and I'll see you both soon."

And then, without another word, he left the room, the sounds of his departure all sounding themselves after a few brief moments.

"Would you like me to get something for you, Marielle?" Christine then asked, coming back over to Marielle's bedside. "Is there anything you need… food, water… anything at all?"

Marielle shook her head. "No, thank you, Madame; I'm quite all right."

"All right." The Comtesse then hesitated before, in a rather slow fashion, she reached out and gently tucked a loose lock of Marielle's midnight-black waves behind her ear. "Then you just get some rest like the doctor instructed. Jeanette will take care of your chores. And if you need anything, just call for me."

"Yes, Madame," Marielle murmured with a light sigh as she scooted herself forward in bed slightly and then lay on her back, her head resting on the pillow. "I will."

"Here, take this off," the older woman continued, reaching out and taking hold of Marielle's mask. She began to remove it.

Before the mask had the chance to come off and completely expose Marielle's deformity, however, Marielle reached up and took hold of the Comtesse's wrist, stopping her from moving the mask any further away from her face.

"Don't do that, please," she softly implored the woman who was both her mother and her mistress. "I'll take it off in a moment when you're gone. I don't want you to see."

"It's nothing I haven't seen many times before," Christine replied calmly, gently pulling her hand out of Marielle's grip. "It doesn't bother me."

And then, before Marielle could protest any further, she placed the mask on the armoire. Then she turned her attention back to her daughter, looking at her fully-exposed face without any trace of horror or revulsion in her expression.

"There," she murmured softly. "That's very much better. And you know, Marielle, you don't have to have your mask on whenever you're in here. This is _your_ room; you're allowed to do whatever you please in here. And if someone doesn't like the fact that you might choose to go unmasked in your room, he doesn't have to come in."

These words made the deformed young woman arch a single eyebrow. What the woman standing before her had said was rather curious… it was almost as if she _knew_ about the thing which had actually gotten her pregnant.

But, of course, the notion that the Comtesse knew what her husband was doing to Marielle was rather ridiculous. The noblewoman had always treated Marielle very well, had always done as much as she really could to look out for Marielle's well-being. If she'd known what the Comte was doing to her, she already would have done something to prevent it from happening anymore.

So her words didn't carry any real significance… except that she seemed to be implying that Marielle's deformity made no difference to her.

A person who didn't care about how ugly she was… what a nice concept.

"Now," she continued, cutting into Marielle's thoughts. She lightly placed a hand on Marielle's shoulder, gently squeezing it. "You get some rest. I'll come and check on you at regular intervals… and like I said, you should call me if you need anything."

Marielle nodded and let out a soft sigh, turning over on her side so that only the regular side of her face was visible to the Comtesse. She closed her eyes. "Thank you, Madame."

Christine gave no verbal response, instead smiling down at her daughter for a few moments before turning and making her way out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a soft _click_.

~ o ~

For the week which superseded Dr. Beaufort's diagnosis, no particular event of any consequence occurred. The Château deChagny's inhabitants largely went about their business as usual, none of them acting very different.

To Marielle's credit, though the idea that she was only about seven months away from bringing a new life into the world didn't particularly appeal to her for various reasons, she came to accept it rather quickly. She rather shyly began asking the Comtesse about various aspects of being a mother whenever there seemed to be a spare moment… and though she was quite some time away from being able to find out what sex her unborn child was, she began to think about different names which she might like to give the baby.

Late during the very evening which marked that seven days' time had passed since Marielle had learned of her pregnancy, she was doing that very thing while lying in bed and attempting to fall asleep—contemplating baby names. Of course, she knew that pondering upon names to give her unborn child wasn't a particularly effective way of lulling herself to sleep; her brain buzzed as she thought about all the names she knew. But she didn't mind. After all, one's name was rather important; he kept it for the whole of his life and, in certain situations, it determined his future. She wanted to make sure her baby had an ideal name—strong but not overwhelming, pleasant but not worthy of mockery, poetic but not ridiculous.

_Edouard, perhaps, for a boy_, she thought, letting out a little sigh which halfway expressed contentment. _Or Etienne. Yes, Etienne sounds rather nice._

She was about to begin pondering upon some girl names which she might like when she suddenly heard footsteps sound, getting louder as they got closer to her door.

A sense of dread suddenly filled her. During the week that had passed since Dr. Beaufort had told her she was pregnant, the Comte hadn't come to her room at all. They hadn't even had that much contact during the daylight hours, either; whenever they had happened to cross paths, he had almost immediately gotten away from her as if she was carrying some particularly awful disease that he feared catching. Admittedly, his avoiding her hadn't bothered her in the least bit, and she'd begun to be hopeful that he would stay away from her bed during the remainder of her pregnancy.

The sound of her door opening told her that her hope had been in vain, causing a lump to rise in her throat. Was he so wrapped up in his twisted desire for vengeance against her father, in his twisted desire for her body, that he simply couldn't stay away from her even though she was now carrying his child?

"Oh!" she gasped as a hand took tight hold of her wrist and roughly pulled her out of bed and into a standing position. And before she even had a chance to gain solid footing, another hand came forward and slapped her undeformed cheek with an incredible violence that nearly rendered her breathless.

"Garce!" the Comte snarled viciously, and when she'd recovered from the hit and looked at him, she saw that the anger in his eyes burned clearly through the darkness which shrouded her room. "You think you can outwit me, do you?"

"Monsieur, I—I'm not trying to outwit you," she breathed, at once alarmed and astonished. What was he on about? "What are you talking about?"

"_What are you talking about?_" he mimicked her, taking on a somewhat high-pitched tone which she might have found funny if not for the fact that she felt so afraid. "As if you don't know! You think that having this baby will expose me!"

"No!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening. "Even if it looks like you, I'm sure Madame la Comtesse will think nothing of it; she'll just think—"

"That you rutted with someone who has eyes and hair that are the same color as mine?" he interrupted rather scornfully. "I thought you might say that. And you know, she very well might come to that conclusion if the child looks like me. But I'd rather not take the risk that she might find me out… I _can't_ take that risk!"

"I'll leave, then!" she responded desperately. The whole of her body was trembling; she was certain that she'd never been more frightened in her life, especially since she didn't know exactly what he had planned. "I'll leave and never come back… I'll find some way to support myself and the baby!"

"Oh, no, I think not," he said rather airily. "If I let you leave, you may very well run right to the police and tell them what I've done! Of course, the chances that they would believe you may be rather slim… but once again, I'd rather not take any risks. I need my loose ends tied up!"

And then, without another word, he turned and began exiting the bedroom, keeping his vicelike grip on her wrist and thus forcing her to stumble along behind him. They made their way out of the servants' quarters and continued on from there, heading toward the front part of the house.

"What… what do you intend to do with me, Monsieur?" she inquired fearfully, her heart pounding rather wildly.

"You and I are going to get rid of this baby," he informed her, his tone both harsh and determined. "We both had a part in its creation… it only seems right that we work together to bring about its annihilation."

They then entered the kitchen, and he dragged her over to the cabinet which, as she knew from years of working in the Château, contained the wine and other various forms of alcohol which the deChagnys sometimes consumed with their meals. He opened the door with his free hand, pulling out a particularly expensive bottle of chardonnay and the corkscrew with which the wines were opened. Then, using the corkscrew, he opened the bottle and then extended it to her.

"Drink."

Her eyes widened. "But… but alcohol isn't good for the baby!"

"I _know_ that, stupid girl!" he hissed impatiently, holding the bottle out to her more insistently. "Why do you think I'm giving you an unopened bottle of one of the finest wines I own? If you drink the whole bottle, you'll surely kill the baby… so that's exactly what you're going to do."

She shuddered from the heartlessness of his words, but somehow managed to find the strength to give the response she knew to be the right one—"No."

"No?" he demanded, his voice so harsh and grating that it made her cringe. "You dare to tell me _no?_"

"This isn't right," she whispered, her body shaking so much out of fear from what her refusal might make him do that she thought it a wonder that she was still standing upright. "I can't kill anyone… especially not a helpless unborn child! Please, Monsieur le Comte… I'll do anything you ask… but not this!"

All of a sudden, he laughed, but his laughter was absolutely humorless. It was a cruel, heartless laughter which made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Oh, you unfortunate, stupid girl," he sighed as his laughter ceased, shaking his head and giving her a chilling smile. "I was trying to give you an easy way to get rid of this baby… I was going to let you take as long as you wanted to drink the entire bottle, I was going to be patient with you as long as you did what I said. But since you've decided to refuse me, this will have to be done the hard way. If you'd just done as I'd instructed, you might have begun to enjoy fine wine after all this was said and done… but with the way things are going to be done now, well… I daresay you may forever recoil from the mere _sight_ of alcohol after I'm through with you."

Before she even had time to fully process his words, he roughly shoved her against the kitchen counter. She attempted to regain her senses and straighten herself back up so she could get away, but it was in vain. The nobleman had her before she was able to run, taking painful hold of her face in such a way that he strong-armed her mouth into an open position as he forced her backwards and very nearly bent her in half over the sink. As he held the wine bottle over her head and began tilting it forward, she knew exactly what he was about to do to her and struggled with all her might, but he was too strong for her.

The moment the chardonnay made its way into her mouth, she gagged at the vile taste and fought back as much as she could, just barely managing to kick and squirm about. The drink was about the most bitter thing she'd ever tasted, and she realized that even if she'd gone along with the Comte's original proposal and begun drinking from the bottle at her own pace, she never would have gotten past the first sip by herself; the rest would have been forced on her as was happening at that very moment.

Over and over she used all her might to try getting away, but it was no use; his strength surpassed hers and he was able to continue emptying the bottle into her mouth. And, of course, since she'd never had alcohol before in her life, she was completely unprepared for its numbing effects. She could feel every one of her senses deadening, she could feel her muscles becoming more and more limp; her thoughts were still those of alarm, but the pace at which they ran through her mind further diminished as the chardonnay continued cascading down her throat.

After what felt like an eternity, the bottle was finally drained, and he attempted to shove it into her limp hand as he stepped away from her. Because the alcohol had so relaxed the entirety of her body, however, she couldn't keep a proper grip on the bottle, and thus it slid out of her hand and landed on the floor with a dull _thunk_.

"Well, I suppose it's all right if the bottle stays there," he mused as he contemplated the senseless young woman before him for several moments. "I'm sure you won't make it too far from here before you entirely lose consciousness, anyway…"

His voice trailed off for a moment, but then he chuckled and gave a little shake of his head as he concluded, "I must confess, at the moment, you're truly a pathetic sight to behold."

She spoke not a word, instead soundlessly swaying back and forth as she continued to stand there. She was completely incapacitated; she hadn't even processed a word he'd said. All coherent thought and understanding had been lost at about the same time at which the bottle had become half-empty.

For several moments more, he stood there and merely looked at her, and then he made no further comment as he exited the kitchen, leaving her alone.

During the two or three minutes which passed after his departure, she remained standing where she was, still lightly swaying with the grace that only a fully-inebriated young woman could possess. Then the room began to spin, however, and she staggered forward a few steps as her balance and body control began to waver. Bare moments after that, she soundlessly fell to the floor as everything went black.

**~ o ~**

**Author's Note: FYI, "garce" (what Raoul called Marielle when he first came into her room) is French for "bitch."**


	5. Chapter 4: Run

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to liebedero and littlegirl94 for putting this story on their alert list. I'd also like to thank The Duelist's Heiress, IAmTheMaskYouWear, liebedero, and frayahhh for reviewing. (Yay reviews! They make me happy.)**

**And now, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

When Marielle awakened, she was greeted by the complete darkness and utter silence of her bedroom. Upon looking at the clock on her wall, she saw that it was 10:15 at night.

It was 10:15 at night… but of what night? She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious; she didn't know if it was the evening immediately following the Comte's attack on her or if she'd been out for a day or more.

Letting out a sigh and rubbing her eyes as she stretched a little, she tried to recall what had occurred during the recent past.

The Comte had dragged her down to the kitchen, forcing an entire bottle of chardonnay down her throat so that the child that had barely begun to grow within her would die. About halfway through downing the bottle, she'd lost all her senses; everything after that point was a black space in her mind.

She imagined, however, that the Comte had gotten her to finish the bottle—and it was more than obvious that she'd passed out at some point after that. She just couldn't remember what had happened between the time in which she'd finished the bottle and the time at which she'd lost consciousness—assuming, of course, that anything had happened at all.

Fuzzy images which had come into her vision as she'd faded in and out and consciousness in the aftermath began to run through her mind. Jeanette screaming for the deChagnys as she apparently discovered Marielle's unconscious form… the Comtesse looking panicked as the Comte feigned surprise… Dr. Beaufort telling Marielle that she would be all right… vomit she expelled in an attempt to rid herself of the alcohol which had been forced into her system…

And blood…. an abundance of blood… coming from her, alongside a tiny mass of flesh that Dr. Beaufort collected and, in some way or another, discarded… the child which she had carried for so short a time.

Her vision blurred as tears suddenly flooded her eyes, and she began to let out small, gasping sobs as the realization that she'd lost her unborn child fully hit her. Admittedly, the prospect of bringing new life into the world had been one which had made her anxious—terrified her, even. But in the short time that she'd known she was pregnant, she'd come to accept that she would be a mother, something which the Comtesse had described as one of the most fulfilling experiences a woman could ever have… something which the Comte had stolen from her.

Once several minutes had passed, Marielle ceased her crying with a deep, shuddering intake of breath and a somewhat loud sniffle. Then she wiped the tears from her face and eyes, sitting up straight in bed with an air of sudden determination about her.

She could no longer stay at the Château deChagny. The events which had just come to pass had been the first of their kind, but she suddenly had the revelation that if she stayed, those events likely wouldn't be the last of their nature. If she remained with the deChagny family, her life would become a miserable cycle of sexual abuse, pregnancy cut short by some vicious method, tears, pain, and fear. And she felt that if she kept herself in that cycle, it wouldn't be too terribly long before she would choose to free herself from it by ending her life…

But she didn't want to die—especially not when she was just barely an adult, especially not by her own hand. And so she had to escape the Château without any hesitation whatsoever; she felt that if she allowed herself to stay for even an hour longer, she would never leave.

There was one important question which hung above her head, however—if she left the Château deChagny, where would she go? She didn't know anyone in the outside world; she held no ties with someone who didn't have some kind of the connection with the deChagny family.

_Oh, but don't you?_ a voice whispered in her head. _You have a blood tie with someone who's entirely outside the deChagny circle… a very _important_ blood tie, as it happens._

Marielle drew in her breath sharply as she realized that the voice was correct. For in all the world which lay beyond the Château's walls, there was one person she knew of with whom she shared an important familial bond, despite the fact that she was entirely certain he didn't know about it, despite the fact that she'd never before encountered him…

She could go to her father.

_But he's a criminal_, she then thought, biting her lip in a gesture of doubt and anxiety. _He's a murderer, an extortionist, and a rapist… and really, that's all that the Comte knows he's done; for all I know, he's committed more crimes than those! I shouldn't be attempting to keep any company with someone like him._

_You fool!_ the voice in her head hissed with frustration. _Look at where you are, look at how your life is… look at what the Comte just put you through; think about everything he's ever done to you up to this point! You _know_ it will all happen again if you stay. I thought you wanted to break away from all this misery…?_

As Marielle took a deep breath, she realized that the voice was right once more. The man named Erik was indeed a criminal... but maybe, if he met her and came to know her, he wouldn't be quite so terrible after all. Perhaps the knowledge that he had a daughter would make him be a better man…

Even if her theory was flawed, however, she knew that most anythingsimply had to be better than staying at the Château and being subjected to more of the Comte's abuse… even being in the presence of her law-breaking father.

_I'll find him_, she thought with determination as she rose to her feet and walked over to the armoire, picking up her mask and placing it on her face. Then she began to simultaneously dress and pack, putting on one of the black dresses she owned alongside a set of undergarments, a pair of stockings, and her shoes while placing the other articles of clothing she had in a carpetbag. _He's apparently a rather elusive man, but I'm sure it won't be too difficult to track him down… I'll just have to find out more about him before I begin my search._

Upon putting all her clothes into her carpetbag, she then collected what other worldly possessions she owned, the few that there were—a small sewing kit, a tattered copy of Les Misérables, and a somewhat-unattractive locket.

Marielle briefly paused as she held the locket in her hand, looking at it solemnly for several moments before opening it to reveal that the inside of the locket held a miniature painting of a beautiful red rose. This was a gift which Pierre deChagny, the Comte's father, had given her for her fifteenth birthday, the last one she'd had before he'd passed away.

She could recall how she'd felt somewhat hurt and confused when Pierre had first presented her with the locket, not understanding why he'd given her something which wasn't very lovely when he'd always been so kind to her. He'd quickly explained himself, however.

"The exterior makes little difference, chérie," he'd said to her, speaking in a tone which was nearly a whisper, as if telling her a secret. He'd then opened the locket and allowed her to see the painting of the rose, and she'd gasped a little in surprise upon seeing its beauty. "It is what is on the inside that truly counts."

Once he'd said those words, she'd known that he had given her the locket to prove a point—she'd understood that he wasn't really speaking in reference to the locket; rather, he was talking about her.

"If the ugliest human being to ever live on this Earth has the kindest heart the world has ever seen, he isn't really the ugliest human; he is, in fact, the most beautiful of all," he'd told her then, taking one of her hands in his free hand and placing the locket in it. Then he'd used both his hands to close her hand around the locket, causing it to press into her palm, and looked at her, his bright blue eyes meeting her grey-green ones. "Remember that, Marielle. Always remember that."

Marielle had promised to remember his words—and in the time which had passed since that day, she'd kept that promise without fail despite the fact that it had occasionally been enormously difficult to do so. Any time she started thinking about how unattractive she was due to her deformity, she recalled what he'd said to her and knew that he'd spoken the truth. It was only because of Pierre that her heart wasn't hardened by bitterness; it was only thanks to him that she always tried to be kind to others even when they treated her harshly… and he was the only reason that she hadn't drowned in the black sea of self-loathing.

For several moments more, she examined the locket in silence, and then she unhooked the clasp which held the chain together and slipped the locket around her neck. Then she put it together in the back, lightly brushing her fingers against it as she proceeded to place her book and sewing kit in her carpetbag and close the bag.

She then picked up her nearby cloak, a hand-me-down which she'd received from the Comtesse. She'd never understood why her mother had given the cloak to her; after all, she shouldn't have ever had need of a cloak, seeing as how she'd been instructed to never leave the Château. Now that she was escaping from her terrible situation, however, the cloak would be most useful in protecting her from all manner of weather. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, putting together the single button which went slightly under her chin, and then pulled the hood over her head.

_This is it_, she thought to herself then, taking a deep breath as her heart began to pound. _ I'm leaving the Château and never coming back; I'm going to see what the world is like away from here…_

A lump rose in Marielle's throat, but she swallowed it down with ease as she picked up her carpetbag and walked over to the window. Setting the carpetbag's handles on her arm so that they rested in the crook of her elbow, she unlocked the window and grasped the bottom with both hands, softly grunting with effort as she pulled up. After several moments, the window gave way to her force, lifting with a _shhhhhh_ sound.

Cool outdoor air blew into her room, and she gasped a little at the sensation of feeling such a thing on her face for the first time. An unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, smell—_this must be what the outdoors smell like_, she realized—filled her nostrils, and she took a deep breath, reveling in it.

Adrenaline rushed through her as she suddenly began to feel excited about what she was about to do, and she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm the ever-quickening pace of her heart. She then turned her head and took one final look around the room that she'd occupied all throughout her twenty years of life—the only home she'd ever known.

"Goodbye," she murmured quietly to the room, as if it something in it would respond. "Goodbye."

Then, without another word, she turned her attention back to the window and the world which lay just outside it, waiting for her to explore it. And with a clearing of her throat, she moved forward and climbed out the window, crouching on the small section of the roof which rested just below the window as she closed the window.

Marielle then scooted forward, going carefully so she wouldn't lose her balance, until she reached the edge of the roof. At that point, she turned herself around so that she was almost looking into her old bedroom, slowly sliding her hands down until they touched the gutter. Then she began to cautiously move herself backward, gripping the gutter tightly. Her heart briefly stopped when she just barely slid off the roof the rest of the way, putting her in such a position that the only thing which prevented her from falling was her hold on the gutter.

For several moments, she continued to hang off the edge of the roof as she looked around to see what her next move might be. Upon seeing that there wasn't something else nearby that she could hold onto so she might just climb down, she realized that she was going to have to just let go of the gutter and allow herself to drop to the ground.

She peered backwards over her shoulder and down, and her stomach started doing backflips as she saw the notable distance between the ground and herself. A lump rose in her throat.

_Well…_ she thought, swallowing hard as she did so, _if I die, at least then the Comte still won't be able to do anything more to me. But I won't die; I'll be all right… I just need to take a deep breath and count to three… and then let go._

Heeding her own mental advice, she took a deep breath in order to steel her nerves, silently telling herself that there was no need for her to be concerned, that she would be all right, that she'd been through so much worse than the situation in which she currently found herself and survived, that she would get to meet the man who had fathered her soon enough. And then, after a slow and silent count to three, she released her grip on the gutter.

By what Marielle could only deem to be a miracle, she landed on her feet without any subsequent injury, stumbling backwards a few steps before managing to regain her balance. Adrenaline raced through her body once more; her fall had been nervewracking yet exciting… and the fact that she'd had as good as landing as she had made it all the more thrilling!

Once she'd breathed in and out deeply several times in order to slow the racing of her heart, she adjusted her carpetbag so that she then had her hand wrapped around the handles. And then, after giving one final look to the Château deChagny, she turned and walked away, heading for the place where she felt certain she would be able to find some answers about her father…

The Opera Populaire.

No one had ever come to Marielle and explicitly told her that Erik had been The Phantom of the Opera when the Comte and Comtesse deChagny had first known him, but from the few times in which her mother had discussed him, she'd gathered that such had, in fact, been the case. And any Parisian of even moderate intelligence, though they may have otherwise been deemed ignorant of the world around them (and Marielle placed herself in this category), knew that the Opera Ghost had made his home in the bowels of the Opera Populaire.

Granted, Marielle didn't know for certain that there would be any evidence that her father had ever lived beneath the Opera; for all she knew, he himself had destroyed all proof of his occupancy years ago. But she didn't know of anywhere else to even begin searching for clues as to what his current whereabouts might be, so she really had no choice but to go to the Opera and hope that there was still something, anything, which might point her in Erik's direction.

It didn't take her a lot of time to reach the Opera, and upon seeing the magnificent exterior of the building which both her parents had once called home, she let out a long breath of awe. Admittedly, the fact that she'd just left the Château deChagny for the first time prevented her from having seen any other buildings in person, but she knew that the Opera Populaire was the most beautiful building she had ever seen—and she felt certain that it was the most beautiful building she would ever see in her entire lifetime.

Clearing her throat as she remembered her purpose, she moved forward, seeing that some of the boards which took the place of a door that had once been there had, at one point or another, been removed. She thus crouched in front of that door, sticking her carpetbag through the space and then following the bag, sliding between the still-nailed-on boards and inside the Opera.

Darkness completely surrounded her as she rose to feet, and she shivered at the prospect of wandering through an unfamiliar building in a completely blind fashion. She didn't really have a choice, however; it wasn't as if she was going to wait until daylight to continue her journey. She was determined to find Erik's residence that very night regardless of how long it might take her.

Swallowing hard and gaining some courage, she moved forward, making her way through the lobby. Her eyesight eventually adjusted to the darkness, allowing her to see the general shapes of items surrounding her. After a short time, she reached the auditorium and then, from there, backstage.

Upon reaching backstage, Marielle didn't really know how to proceed. She didn't know where the Comtesse's old dressing room was—and even if she had known, she wasn't sure that there was actually a way to gain access to her father's underground home from that point.

Feeling somewhat stupid and silently wishing that the Comtesse had let some more information about the Opera Populaire slip over the years, she moved toward the backmost part of the backstage, where the dressing rooms were, deciding that she would at least try finding her mother's old dressing room. And if she found it, she would then see if there was any way to reach the Opera's bowels from there.

After she'd taken only two or three steps, a soft _click_ sound reached her ears—and then, all of a sudden, the part of the floor on which she stood gave way beneath her, proving itself to be a trapdoor. With a scream, she fell down, down, down…

"Oof!" she grunted a bit as she abruptly landed on a hard surface on her back, the wind momentarily getting knocked out of her. Upon gaining clarity of vision several moments later, she saw that she was surrounded by a rather large number of mirrors.

_What is this place?_ she wondered as she sat up straight, looking around and seeing many different versions of her dark reflection. _A room that has nothing in it… whose walls are composed solely of mirrors…_

Marielle quit pondering upon the room she was in, however, when she saw that there was actually a way out of the room—for there, to her left, there was a section of the room which contained a door. The door was open, and a soft golden light which came from outside was entering the mirrored room through it.

She rose to her feet, picking up her carpetbag and then walking out of the mirrored room. And when she saw what lay beyond the room where she'd just been, she gasped and her heart began to pound wildly.

The most beautiful fortress she had ever seen awaited her. Candles, a few of which were lit, could be found throughout the whole of the area. From what she could see, this underground kingdom contained a kitchen and a golden peacock bed with deep red bedding on it and a black curtain surrounding it—at least, those were two items which she recognized; there were two other peculiar-looking objects which she'd never seen before.

It made no difference to her that she didn't know what those two unusual-looking items were, however, because she _did_ know where she was. Without a doubt, she'd accomplished her goal; she'd found Erik's home beneath the Opera.

"Wow," she murmured with awe, setting down her carpetbag and venturing further into the place where her father had once lived. She took in the sight of a miniature model of the Opera's auditorium, multiple drawings and paintings of a younger Comtesse deChagny, pieces of paper that were scattered all about the floor and on various pieces of furniture, some of which was blank and some of which were marked with different words and some markings which were unfamiliar to her.

Frowning a little, Marielle picked up one of the pieces of paper which had those strange markings on them, reading the words which had been written at the top of the paper.

"_Don Juan_," she read out loud, raising her visible eyebrow. Her eyes traveled further down the page and examined the curious markings. All the way down the page, there were multiple sets of four lines which had been drawn horizontally. Between those lines, and sometimes on them, were what appeared to be dots with lines attached to them. Some of the dots had been filled in while others hadn't. Arches had been drawn to apparently attach some of these unusual dots together.

After looking at the markings for several moments and still not understanding what they were, she shrugged a little and placed the page atop one of the objects which she hadn't recognized earlier. This object was black, shiny, and rather sizable, and upon running her hand along it for a moment, she felt that it was rather smooth, leading her to believe that it was probably wood with a glossy finish. It had an unusual shape which she couldn't particularly describe and looked almost as if it was composed of two major parts. One portion was hollowed-out and held rather thick-looking cords inside, while the other was held up by what appeared to be a rod and which appeared as if it would be a top for the first portion if the rod was removed. At the front of this item were black and white blocks which, she discovered by just barely brushing her fingers against some of them, were smooth to the touch.

Marielle then glanced over to the other unfamiliar object, which appeared to be composed of a very large chunk of intricately-carved wood and pipes which issued from the wood and ran up the wall behind it. Like the object she'd just been examining, this item had different blocks on it. After a moment, she decided that she wasn't even going to attempt to discover what that object might be; it was too puzzling to her.

_What strange things_, she thought to herself, sighing a little as she looked around the lair once more.

Her eyes then fell on more pieces of paper—pieces of paper which had several different drawings on each of them. They appeared to be pictures of buildings.

Squatting down a bit, she took hold of the papers and examined them, discovering after several moments that the drawings were building designs. From what she could tell, they were rather attractive buildings, leading her to come to the conclusion that her father was a rather talented architect.

"A criminal and an architect rolled into one," she said softly, scanning the pages for a few moments more before making to fold them up so they would be more portable and she might hold onto them. Before she was able to do so, however, some writing at the bottom-right corner of one of the pages caught her attention.

After looking at the writing for a moment or two, she found that it was a signature—_E. Tourneau_.

"Tourneau," she murmured, the name rolling off her tongue with ease. "Erik Tourneau… his surname is Tourneau."

_Well, that means _my_ surname is Tourneau_, she realized immediately after saying that. _Strange… I've never thought about having a surname; no one's ever called me by anything other than my first name unless they were calling me "girl" or something to that effect. I suppose I thought I didn't have one… but I do. I do!_

"Marielle Tourneau," she then said aloud, testing the name. "Marielle Tourneau."

It felt somewhat unusual to be attaching a surname to her first name… and yet, at the same time, it _sounded_ right.

"Hello," she murmured, acting as if she was introducing herself to someone. "My name is Marielle Tourneau."

Upon saying those words, a foreign feeling of giddiness suddenly went through her, and she let out a little giggle before gasping and clapping a hand over her mouth as if she expected someone to reprimand her for making any sounds which indicated happiness, excitement, or any other positive emotion.

After a moment, however, no such event occurred, and she removed her hand from her mouth and smiled as her newly-discovered full name ran through her brain.

_Marielle Tourneau, Marielle Tourneau, Marielle Tourneau… my name is Marielle Tourneau._

For a few moments more, she remained squatted on the floor, but then she folded up her father's building designs and held onto them as she rose to her feet. Then she resumed looking around the lair, still trying to unearth new information about Erik.

Before too long, Marielle discovered a rather large chest which had a lock on it. Upon taking hold of the lock and lightly tugging on it, she found that the lock wasn't just for show; her father didn't want anyone getting to whatever the chest contained. She felt as if she needed to look inside, however, because for all she knew, whatever the chest held would help lead her to Erik.

"Hmm," she murmured thoughtfully as she straightened herself slightly, looking around the lair. "If _I_ hid a key… where would I hide it?"

Her eyes fell upon the second strange-looking object that her father owned, the item which she had previously decided to avoid because she didn't feel as if she had any hope of figuring out what it was.

_Perhaps that's why he has that thing_, she thought to herself. _Maybe he doesn't even really know what it is, but he got it and hid the key there because he didn't think anyone who might come here would go near it because they wouldn't know what it is._

Deciding to test her theory, she walked over to the unusual object and examined it for several moments, then placed her hand under the section which held up the black and white blocks. She ran her hand along that bottom panel until her fingers caught on something cool and hard, at which point a black key fell to the floor with a soft clattering sound.

A smile crossed Marielle's features as she momentarily bent over and picked up the key, returning to the chest and inserting the key into the lock. She turned the key until the shackle came undone and the lock opened. Then she pulled the lock off the chest, setting it on the floor and then lifting the chest's lid. To her utter astonishment, she was greeted by a great deal of paper money.

"Oh, my," she breathed softly, a hand going to her throat at the sight. She'd never seen so many francs in one place… the amount her eyes were beholding would certainly buy all her worldly possessions at least twenty times over!

She reached out a hand to pick up some of the bills, but hesitated when she was about halfway to the chest. It didn't feel right to be taking her father's money without his knowledge… although, judging by the fact that he was an extortionist, some of this money probably wasn't his to give in the first place.

_But I don't have any money of my own_, she thought to herself, biting the inside of her cheek in a gesture of uncertainty. _I don't have any way of getting to wherever he might be… if I walked, it would take me a very long time to get to him… and depending on where he is, I might not be able to walk the whole way even if I began to do so. Taking the train or a ship, if I had to cross an ocean, is certainly the best method of transport. But I can't afford a train or ship ticket on my own. I could stow away, but that would be illegal… and I'd get in a lot of trouble if I got caught._

For several moments more, she struggled between the moral questionability of taking Erik's money without his permission and the indubitable necessity for money as her hand remained halfway reached out to the chest. Then, however, she extended her hand the rest of the way and began picking up several sizable wads of francs.

Marielle took as many bills as she could fit into both hands, then walked over to her carpetbag and placed the money in it. Then, after repeating this process several times, she returned to the chest one final time to close it, replace the lock, and put the key back in its hiding spot.

_I'll pay him back later_, she decided as she straightened herself and let out a little sigh. _After all, I'm eventually going to have to find some stable employment in order to support myself… I'm sure I won't be able to pay back the whole amount I've taken all at one time, but eventually I will pay him back entirely._

She then walked over to the strange-looking black object, for she saw that there were several sizable stacks of paper resting on it and the bench which was situated in front of it. Now that she'd gathered the financial means to travel to wherever Erik might be, she needed to discover his possible location. Surely, amongst all those papers, she would find something which would help her find out such a thing…

After seating herself on an open portion of the bench, Marielle picked up the stack of papers which was closest to her, beginning to sift through all the papers one by one to see what was on each of them. Most of them were papers with those unusual markings on them, while the rest were more building designs.

Upon finding nothing useful in that first stack of papers, she moved on to another set—and upon looking at the page which was at the very top of this pile, she found that, at one point or another, Erik had written a list upon it.

_London  
>Dublin<br>Amsterdam  
>Rome<br>Madrid  
>Athens<br>Brussels  
>Prague<br>Vienna  
>Stockholm<br>Copenhagen  
>Moscow<em>

Based on the fact that she recognized the names London, Rome, and Stockholm, Marielle gathered that this was a list of different cities. She didn't know where the cities she didn't recognize were located, but upon glancing at what had been resting underneath this list in the stack of papers she'd been examining, she saw that such wasn't an issue—for there, now at the very top of the pile, was a folded map.

She picked up the map, opening it up and briefly scanning it. From there, she discovered that Erik had written the names of cities which were all situated in various parts of Europe—or, in the case of London and Dublin, in England or Ireland.

_I suppose these are all places where he wanted to go_, she mused to herself. _I certainly _hope_ that's what this list is—otherwise, I don't know how I'm going to even begin finding him. So I'll use this list as my guide; I'll make my way down the whole of it until I find him. And if he's not in one of these cities, well… I'll have to figure out another way to locate him._

After studying the map for a bit longer, she found that the French town of Le Havre appeared to be the town which was closest to the ocean. She would thus take the train from Paris to Le Havre… and from there, she would board a ship and cross the English Channel, docking in Southampton and then taking another train to her first destination—London.

Marielle then let out a rather long yawn, and she rubbed her eyes and, upon glancing at a clock which was situated atop that curious black object, found that it was nearly midnight. She hadn't been awake for very long, but she supposed that all she'd been through recently, as well as the monumental event of her departure from the Château deChagny, had made her tired.

Briefly running a hand through her hair, she picked up the clock and walked over to her carpetbag. She picked it up as well, sticking the list and the map in it while then heading for the peacock bed. She sat on the edge of bed as she placed her bag and the clock down, removing her cloak, shoes, and stockings and then tucking herself in, pulling the covers over her body as she lay down.

_Tomorrow I'll begin my travels_, she thought to herself as she let out another yawn, closing her eyes and feeling her body relax. _London… I hope it's as interesting of a city as I've heard it is._

Soon thereafter, she fell asleep, dreaming of trains, ships, and an older man who wore a mask as she did.

**~ o ~**

**Author's Note: If you don't know what the "two peculiar-looking objects" Marielle saw in the lair were, ask me in a review or PM and I'll let you know.**


	6. Chapter 5: Hidden in Plain Sight

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to liebedero, Summercay, The Duelist's Heiress, and IAmTheMaskYouWear for reviewing!**

**Now, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

About a week later, a certain train pulled into Paddington Station in London. When it came to a full stop and its passengers were allowed off, Marielle was one of the first people to step off the train and onto the platform.

Letting out a little sigh of exhilaration because she'd enjoyed the train ride immensely and somewhat regretted having had to get off, she looked around momentarily, trying to determine what her next move ought to be.

She knew nothing about London whatsoever—that is, she didn't know of any places to stay, any restaurants at which to dine, or what might be the best method for getting around the town. And most importantly, she had no idea as to whether or not she'd find her father here.

_I suppose I need to find somewhere to stay first_, she thought to herself after contemplating how she ought to go about her first day in London. _And it's about noontime, so I should also have some lunch. So that's what I'll do—I'll find a hotel at which I can stay and then get myself something to eat._

Once she'd glanced around a bit more, she saw that there was a window at the ticket office which had a sign marked _Tourist Services_ above it. Deciding that she would speak to whoever was working there and get some advice about where she might want to stay during her trip, she picked up her carpetbag and walked over there, taking her place at the back of the line and waiting her turn.

"Good morning, ma'am," the middle-aged man at the booth greeted her as she finally reached the head of the line and stepped up to the window, looking down at a piece of paper as he wrote upon it. "How may I help…"

His voice trailed off as he looked at her and, in spite of the hood covering her head, saw the mask on her face. His eyes then widened a bit as his face paled slightly. "Oh."

Doing her best to ignore his sudden change in demeanor, she smiled at him in as polite a manner as she could, internally feeling glad that the Comtesse had seen fit to teach her English in her otherwise-meager education. "Hello. I was wondering if you could tell me of some hotels around the area—you know, recommend some to me. I need something that's rather on the cheaper side; I don't have a lot of money…"

"Ah, er, yes… yes, of course," the man said nervously, picking up several sheets of paper and looking at them. Marielle tried not to notice the fact that her appearance had made him so nervous that his hands were shaking. "Well, there's Ashley's Hotel, which is just under half a kilometer west of here… it's only about forty pounds a night. Is that suitable for you?"

"Yes, I think that will be good," she replied, giving him another smile and a nod. "Thank you, monsieur."

And then, without waiting for a response, she picked up her carpetbag and left the station, heading west just as the man at the counter had instructed. She tried to remain focused on where she was heading and not think about the way the man had reacted to seeing her mask, but of course failed.

Because she'd never ventured outside the Château deChagny until about a week earlier, she'd never really experienced any backlash toward her appearance. But then again, that was because she'd been around people who had grown accustomed to her mask, as well as what was beneath it. The only person in the Château who had frequently given some strong reaction to the way she looked was Jeanette. In the past week, however, most everyone she'd encountered had initially looked at her with widened eyes—and afterwards, they'd either been rude or frightened.

She sighed a little to herself. She knew the mask she wore was a little disconcerting—she would have felt the same were it not for the fact that she'd spent twenty years wearing it. But she hadn't expected to receive such negative reception upon first entering the world which lay outside the Château deChagny.

_I have to take the good with the bad, I suppose_, she mused as she caught sight of a rather large, somewhat-attractive white building and saw a sign which indicated that it was Ashley's Hotel. _And I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that I won't receive such unwanted attention whenever I meet my father. He's got the same face, after all._

Clearing her throat a bit, she stepped inside the hotel and approached the front desk. She tried not to be anxious as she noticed that the woman working the desk, apparently immediately having seen her mask, had been looking at her in a rather hard fashion from the moment she'd entered—and was still doing so even as she addressed the woman.

"Hello. Do you have any open rooms at the moment?"

"Yes, I suppose we do have a few," the woman replied, frowning a little and thus indicating to Marielle that she wasn't entirely thrilled at the prospect of giving one of her rooms to an unconventional-looking guest such as she. She picked up a nearby notebook and pen and began writing in it. "How long will you be staying?"

"I'm not sure," the masked young woman confessed. "I'm in London looking for someone, you see, and I don't even know if he's here—"

"How long you stay doesn't matter," the woman interrupted rather harshly as she raised a stern eyebrow at her, "as long as you're able to pay."

"Oh." Marielle felt her face grow hot at the woman's implication that she either didn't have much money or would even think of attempting to stay in the hotel when she couldn't afford a room. "Well, don't worry; I'll leave whenever I've found who I'm looking for or I've run out of money."

"Very well." The woman braced herself to write something else in the notebook. "Name?"

"Tourneau," Marielle replied, a brief smile crossing her features as she once again pondered upon her newly-discovered full name. "Marielle Tourneau."

For several moments more, the woman continued writing in her notebook. Upon finishing, she briefly turned to the wall behind her and removed a key from one of the hooks attached to the wall.

"Room 210," she informed Marielle, dropping the key into the younger woman's outstretched hand. "Up the stairs and five doors down on the right."

"Thank you," Marielle replied, giving the woman one final smile before turning and heading toward the nearby staircase. She'd intended to ask the woman if she knew of any inexpensive eating establishments in the area so she could get herself some lunch upon settling into her room, but the woman had made it quite clear that she wasn't interested in speaking with her anymore, so she'd decided against it.

After reaching the upstairs door marked _210_ and entering, she found herself in a room which was rather similar to her old bedroom at the Château deChagny. It was relatively small and didn't have much in it except for a bed and a nightstand that had a sink, a small mirror, and several drawers. Upon opening a door which was further inside the bedroom, she discovered that the room also had a bathroom, but it wasn't one which was exclusive to her room—it was shared with the room which lay on the other side of it.

_Well, maybe no one is in the other room now_, she thought to herself with a slight frown at the fact that her bedroom at the Château had an advantage to the room she was now occupying because she'd had her own private bathroom, _but I ought to lock the door leading from the bathroom to my room whenever I'm not using the bathroom. I don't want to risk anyone getting into my room._

Once Marielle had closed the bathroom door and locked it, she set her carpetbag atop her bed, opening it and starting to remove everything she'd put in it. She hung up her other black dress, put her undergarments and stockings in the nightstand drawers, and placed her sewing kit and book atop the nightstand.

For several moments, she then looked anxiously at the items which remained in her carpetbag—the rather large amount of money and folded-up set of papers that she'd taken from Erik's home. It was really the money that made her anxious, not the papers; she still didn't feel comfortable with having so much money.

_I'll keep most of it here, of course, and take a small amount with me whenever I go out_, she decided after a moment, pulling out a relatively small wad of pound notes she'd acquired upon exchanging about half of her francs for more useful currency during her brief interlude in Southampton several days earlier. Then she used a safety pin from her sewing kit to pin the notes together so they would be easier for her to hold and keep track of.

She then pulled out the papers which she'd taken and closed her carpetbag, setting it underneath her bed. After pinning those papers together as well and then using a third safety pin to link together her wad of pounds and the papers, she took hold of the pinned-together items. Upon letting out a little sigh, she determined that she was ready to depart her room.

Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head further so that her face might be better-concealed, she headed for the door, ensuring that she had her key before exiting the room and allowing the door to close behind her with a _click_.

Without saying any passing words to the woman at the front desk, she left the hotel entirely, stopping as she reached the sidewalk. She briefly looked around and tried to consider where she might go.

_I guess I'll just wander around until I find something of interest_, she thought to herself, walking down the part of the sidewalk which was to the left of her. _And while I'm doing so, I can explore the city a bit. That sounds good._

For some amount of time, she walked along the sidewalk, taking in the sights of the many boutiques, antique shops, jewelry stores, and eateries by which she passed. It wasn't until a particularly appealing smell captured her nose, however, that she stopped and closely studied a restaurant called Henson's Fish and Chips while standing outside.

Naturally, Marielle knew what fish was, but she'd never heard of chips. She'd also never heard of another thing which was being advertised by a sign which sat in the window—Coca-Cola.

Coca-Cola was clearly a brown-colored drink, as indicated by the sign, which had a picture of a smiling girl holding a glass bottle with the name _Coca-Cola_ marked on it. Marielle wondered what it tasted like.

_Well_, a voice in her head said, _why don't you find out? And in the meantime, you can order some fish and chips and find out what chips are. And even if you don't like the chips, you ought to like the fish. You like fish… and at the moment, it certainly smells appetizing…_

The sound and slight rumbling feel of her stomach growling was all she needed. Without any further hesitation, she opened the door and stepped inside the restaurant, a ringing bell announcing her entry.

"Good af'ernoon, mum!" a man who obviously worked at the restaurant greeted Marielle with a wide smile. Marielle was surprised to note how much his accent differed from the accents of the man at the train station and the woman at the hotel—although she couldn't particularly describe _how_ it was different.

He was friendly, however, although Marielle knew that it was probably only because he couldn't see her mask. Regardless, she couldn't help but return his smile and his greeting: "Good afternoon, sir."

"Come in for a bit o' lunch, 'ave ya?"

"Yes."

"Well, take a seat, why don' ya, and I'll be wi' ya in a momen'."

Nodding and giving the man another smile, she seated herself at a booth, sighing with slight ecstasy as she felt how comfortable the seats were. She almost felt comfortable enough with the atmosphere to remove her hood, but felt as if the pleasant air hanging about would be damaged if she did so, and thus the hood remained on her head.

"Now then, mum," the man she'd spoken with earlier addressed her as he stepped up to her table, a small notepad and pen in his hands. He braced himself to write. "I presume you'll be 'avin' fish 'n' chips, yeah?"

"That's what I'd like, yes." Marielle paused, and then she confessed, "I… I've never had fish and chips."

"Ya 'aven' 'ad fish 'n' chips?" the man demanded incredulously. "Where ya been, girl, that y' ain' 'ad fish 'n' chips?"

She initially felt inclined to say that she'd been confined to the Château deChagny all her life, but felt that such wasn't appropriate to share with a complete stranger. Thus she shrugged and rather tentatively responded, "France…"

"Ah, tha'll do i'. Well, good thing ya come 'ere for ye firs' taste! 'Enson's makes the bes' fish 'n' chips tha' e'er were! I tried all kind o' fish 'n' chips in m' life and ne'er had any be'er 'n 'Enson's!"

"Well, I can't wait to try them, then," she replied, finding his enthusiasm contagious and thus being unable to stop herself from smiling. "I'd also like some Coca-Cola."

"Good choices, mum, good choices," the man confirmed with a grin, scribbling something down on his little notepad. He briefly looked up at her before turning and heading for the kitchen. "I'll 'ave all o' i' ou' in a jiff!"

For several minutes, Marielle was left alone, and she sat in her booth, contemplating what would be her next move once she'd finished lunch. She supposed she should begin searching for Erik… though she had no earthly idea as to how she might find him in such a big city. After all, since she'd heard that he was an elusive man, she felt as if the odds of merely running into him on the street were incredibly slim.

_Then I suppose I'll just wander around, looking for something that looks like it might help me find him_, she finally concluded. _What that something will be is rather beyond me… but I guess whenever I see it, I'll just have a _feeling_ that it will lead me to him._

"'Ere ya go, mum," the man announced upon returning with a tray that had a glass bottle of Coca-Cola and a plate which contained a sizable, rather strange-looking chunk of… something, as well as thickly-cut slices of some food that she had yet to identify. He set the bottle and plate before her. "Any'in' else I can ge' ya?"

"No, thank you, I think I'm all right," she replied with a shake of her head, wanting to ask him exactly what he'd given her but feeling that such would be rather stupid—after all, what else would it be but fish and chips, even if none of what she had looked like any fish she'd ever seen?

"Very good, mum. Enjoy!" the man said, and then he turned and walked away once more.

Once he'd gone, Marielle took a moment to study the items before her, trying to decide what she should try eating first. If she was being perfectly honest, none of what she'd been given looked very appetizing to her, though it smelled absolutely heavenly—it was the same smell that had first drawn her into the restaurant.

Her stomach growled, at which point she decided that if the fish and chips before her had smelled this good outside and smelled just as good now, they certainly had to taste good. She thus decided to first try the strange-looking chunk on the plate, which was colored a golden brown.

Picking up the fork the man had given her alongside her plate and bottle, she cut into the chunk to discover that it was white and flaky on the inside. Steam issued from the inside of the chunk as she cut it into edible pieces, causing the smell to waft up to her nose. This unusual-looking food item was the fish!

Frowning a little as she wondered why the fish looked as it did, she speared a piece with her fork and brought it to her mouth, chewing it in a slow, rather thoughtful manner.

She didn't particularly know how the fish had the flavor it did, nor could she really describe the flavor, but nonetheless, it was very pleasing! It seemed as if the fish had some kind of breading atop it, though it wasn't any breading she'd seen during the time in which she'd served the deChagny family; that breading had been flavored bread crumbs, while she didn't know what this breading consisted of.

_If this is the fish_, she realized as she continued eating the fish, eyeing the strangely-cut slices that also took up space on her plate, _then those must be the chips. But what _are_ they, exactly?_

Within a few minutes, she'd entirely downed the fish and therefore decided to try the chips. So, picking one up with her fork, she stuck in it her mouth and tasted it. At that point, she discovered that the chips had been made from potatoes, though like the fish, the potatoes had been cooked in a way which was different from any method by which they'd been cooked when she'd lived at the Château. They, too, tasted good, however, so she didn't particularly care how they'd been cooked.

Marielle then entirely cleared her plate of the chips, and she sighed in ecstasy as she set her fork atop the plate. She'd always liked fish and potatoes, but she'd never enjoyed them as much as she had just then! She would have to ask the man who'd served her how, exactly, one made fish and chips, because she wanted to be able to cook it herself and thus have it whenever she wanted.

_Oh, I haven't tried my Coca-Cola_, she thought several moments later, glancing at the bottle of brown liquid before her. _I suppose I ought to do that now. I hope I enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the fish and chips!_

Picking up the glass bottle to discover that it was cool, she brought it to her lips and somewhat tentatively tilted it until the Coca-Cola began to pour into her mouth.

The drink felt as if it bubbled inside her mouth and all the way down her throat, and it had a particular kind of sweetness to it which she enjoyed immensely. In no time at all, she entirely drained the bottle, at which point she set it back down on the table with a little sigh. What a wonderful meal she'd just had!

"Well?" the man inquired as he suddenly arrived at her table once more, hands on his hips in a somewhat impatient gesture which made a smile tug at the corners of her lips. "Did ya like i'?"

"Oh, yes," she replied with enthusiasm, nodding fervently and glancing up at him with a smile. In that moment, she silently hoped that he wouldn't take notice of her mask and thus ruin the pleasant exchange they were having and had had since her arrival. "It was incredible!"

"I knew ya'd enjoy i'!" the man replied gleefully, clapping his hands together a couple of times. "I knew i', I jus' knew i'!"

Nodding for a few moments more, she then inquired, "How, exactly, do you make fish and chips? I've never seen fish and potatoes that looked, or _tasted_, like that before."

"Real simply, mum!" the man informed her with a smile. "Ya jus' cover the fish in ba'er and fry i'! And the same wi' the chips, really. Jus' cut 'em up and put 'em on the fryer!"

"Fry," she murmured, echoing the strange word. She felt inclined to ask him what that word meant, but she didn't want to sound ignorant. She would merely discover it for herself on some other occasion.

She then looked up at him as she unpinned the wad of pound notes she had, separating a few of them from the rest. "How much do I owe you?"

"Three pounds thir'een pence, mum," the man replied, and she nodded and handed him four notes. He took them from her. "Need any change?"

"No, thank you," she said, shaking her head a bit as the man stepped back a few steps and she rose to her feet. "Thank you very much for the meal."

"My pleasure, mum. Come back any time!"

"Perhaps I will," she responded, giving him a final smile and then heading toward the door. "Have a good day."

"You, too, mum… you, too!"

Without another word, Marielle then exited the restaurant, continuing in the direction in which she'd been traveling before coming to Henson's. She let out a contented sigh, the good meal she'd eaten and the friendly interaction she'd had with the man who had served her having put her in a good mood.

_Of course, he probably really only was as nice as he was because he didn't see my face_, she reflected, frowning a little to herself. _At least he didn't question why I had my hood on, though. That would have made things awkward._

For the next while, she continued on in silence, observing the establishments she passed by in silence. All the while she pondered upon whether or not she'd have any luck finding her father in London.

_I suppose I'm being rather impatient_, she thought with a little sigh. _After all, I haven't even been here very long… only a few hours. If he's even in London at all, it'll probably take me a considerable time to find him, especially depending on how well-hidden he is. I just hope I find him before I run out of money… I'd hate to have to leave once I'm starting to feel as if I'm getting close to him, even if I no longer have the financial means to keep looking._

Just a few moments after these musings had run through her mind, she passed by a tavern. The sight made her cringe a little, as anything related to alcohol made her think about what the Comte had done to her such a short time ago. She would have continued walking away from it in a hurry… if not for the fact that, oddly enough, the building looked familiar.

She paused, studying the tavern for a few moments. Yes, it did look like a place she'd seen before… which was unusual, because she hadn't taken note of any taverns while she'd still been in Paris and none of the buildings she'd passed earlier had looked like this tavern…

Marielle stopped short. Then, taking a deep breath, she unpinned the wad of papers she'd brought alongside her pound notes, unfolding them and beginning to examine them, sifting through the first few before stopping.

Upon glancing between the building design in her hands and the tavern standing before her several times within a few brief seconds, her heart began to pound so violently that she could hear the blood thrumming in her ears.

Erik had designed the tavern. He _had_ to have designed it; from what she could see, there was no difference between the building design on the paper in her hands and the building in front of her. And there was absolutely no way that someone different had constructed a building which looked exactly the same as one of her father's building designs. Such a monumental coincidence, if coincidence itself existed at all, was impossible.

_Maybe someone inside knows who he is, then_, she concluded. _Maybe someone has met him—or, at the very least, has heard of him._

The concept of going into a tavern made a sick feeling begin to manifest itself in her stomach, but she knew that she had no choice. The fact that she was seeing one of her father's building designs actually constructed was a clear sign that, at one point or another, he'd been in London. Perhaps he wasn't in the city now, but maybe she'd meet someone who would know of his current whereabouts. She couldn't let such an obvious opportunity to find out more about her father slip away because of her severe and newly-awakened aversion toward any and all things related to alcohol.

After taking a deep breath and straightening herself, she walked into the tavern without another thought.

"May I 'elp you, mum?" a woman standing behind the bar, the only person in the tavern, inquired of her, almost in the same moment in which she entered.

"I hope so," Marielle replied, clearing her throat as she walked over to the bar. Judging by the somewhat-surprised way in which the woman was looking at the hood atop her head, she could tell that it was sufficiently covering her face so her mask was unseen—a fact for which she was glad.

"Do you know a man named Erik Tourneau?" she asked the woman after a moment.

The woman arched a single eyebrow. "Erik Tourneau? 'Fraid not, mum. Never 'eard that name in m' life."

"Well, he's responsible for the construction of this building in one way or another," Marielle informed the woman in a rather insistent fashion, hoping that this fact would help the woman know something about Erik. She placed the building design which had been used for the tavern atop the bar, turning it in such a way that the woman could see it and smoothing it down a bit. "See? It's an exact match to the design of this building; he created this place."

"Oh, would you look a' that!" the woman exclaimed in wonder, peering at the page more closely with interest. "That's jus' fascinatin'."

Marielle nodded. "Maybe you've seen him before and you just didn't know his name. He's French, wears a mask on the right side of his face… and at this point, he probably has gray hair. But it used to be black."

For several moments, the woman was silent as she looked thoughtful, but then she finally shook her head and shrugged a bit. "I've never met anyone by that descrip'ion, mum… and I've never 'eard anyone in this place talk abou' someone wi' that name. Sorry."

"It… it's all right," Marielle replied with a sigh, her obvious disappointment showing in her tone. She'd seemed so close to finding her father!

"As long as you don't mind, I may come back a few more times in the future to ask some of your customers if they know him," she continued to the woman after a few moments. "Would that bother you?"

"Not a' all, mum. Although I don't think anyone 'ere will be much of a 'elp to ya. They're all drunks, after all."

"Yes," Marielle agreed. "But all the same, I'd like to come back anyway. See, it's of the utmost importance to me that I find Monsieur Tourneau."

The woman nodded in an understanding fashion. "All right, mum. Just come on back whenever you feel like. And if I hear anythin' about an Erik Tourneau, I'll let ya know the nex' time you come around."

"That would be wonderful, thank you." Marielle took the building design from atop the bar and put it back with the rest of the papers she'd brought with her, pinning them back together. Then she started walking toward the door. "I'll see you later."

"See ya la'er, mum. 'Ave a good day."

Without another word, Marielle pushed open the door and left the tavern, letting out a sigh as she resumed walking along the sidewalk. She'd seemed so close to finding her father… only to find that the one person she'd been able to speak to hadn't even heard of him!

_He obviously designed the tavern, though_, she thought to herself, trying to be positive. _That means he _was_ here, in London, at one point or another. And if he designed the tavern, he probably designed other buildings around here, too. So I'll just start looking for places that look exactly like the building designs I brought with me… and maybe places that look _almost_ exactly the same. With any luck, doing that will eventually help me meet someone who knows him._

This encouraging thought in her head, she continued on, now focusing more intently on the establishments she passed in case she happened upon one which looked like another one of her father's building designs.

~ o ~

Late in the evening that same day, a man sat alone in the parlor of his executive suite at Claridge's—a hotel which was arguably the most luxurious hotel in all of London. He stared into the fireplace intently, watching the bright flames within as they danced about wildly.

A knock upon his door interrupted his musings about the day he'd had, but he remained exactly as he was in his chair as he spoke.

"Come in."

He stayed perfectly still as the sound of the door opening and re-closing reached his ears. There was a momentary silence as a second man, many years younger than he who sat before the fire, came to stand beside the chair which the first man occupied.

"Message for you, Monsieur Tourneau. It's from Louisa."

Erik finally moved upon hearing this, moving his chin from its resting place atop his hand as he turned his head toward the small white envelope which was being extended to him. He briefly glanced up at his employee, whose expression gave no indication as to whether or not he knew what message the envelope held, before taking the envelope in his hand.

"Bring me my letter-opener, if you would, Cameron."

The young man did as he'd been instructed and walked over to the nearby desk, opening its drawer and pulling out the letter-opener. He then returned to Erik, handing it to him silently and then remaining beside the chair.

Once he'd opened the envelope, Erik pulled out the piece of paper within, unfolding it and reading the message written upon it.

_Someone was looking for you. A woman. Young, from the sound of her. Couldn't see her face; she had a hood over her head. French accent. She somehow had a design of the tavern with her—it had your signature at the bottom of it and everything. Of course I told her I'd never heard of you, but she's going to come asking around again. Said it's of the utmost importance that she find you._

"Hmm," Erik murmured, raising his visible eyebrow as he continued studying the note.

"Is something wrong, sir?" Cameron inquired.

"No… not really, I suppose," Erik responded, shaking his head a bit as he briefly glanced toward the younger man. "Although it may be a problem in the future if it continues."

"Was the tavern robbed? Or vandalized?"

"Oh, no; nothing of that sort. Someone came in looking for me."

Cameron frowned a little, knowing that such an occurrence could indeed prove problematic. For many reasons, his employer was a man who wished to remain hidden. "I see. Do you know who it might have been?"

Erik shook his head again, letting out a little sigh as he furrowed his brow. "No. It was a woman from France… she sounded young, apparently. And I'm not acquainted with any young French ladies… any French women I've known in the past aren't young anymore."

"She sounded young?" Cameron echoed. "Louisa didn't think she looked young?"

"Louisa couldn't tell one way or the other. The girl had a hood on." Erik paused thoughtfully. "She apparently said that it was very important that she find me."

"Ah." Cameron scratched his head a bit. "Well, I wonder who it was… and what's so important to her that she find you?"

"I think she may be interested in my architecture," Erik mused, a rare expression of puzzlement crossing his masked features. "She somehow had a copy of my design for the tavern."

Upon hearing this, Cameron's eyebrows shot up. "Well, all questions as to how she even got hold of something like that aside, how could she have known that you're here? And more than that, how would she even realize that your name is Erik? You always sign your designs, compositions, and documents _E. Tourneau_."

"Yes," Erik murmured. "It's very strange."

"Well, she shouldn't be a problem for too long, really," Cameron then continued. "If she still persists even after being continually told that no one's familiar with you, then the threats will make her go away."

"True." Erik paused, then rose from his seat and tossed the note and envelope into the fire. "If it starts to become too much of a nuisance, we'll do something about it. But until then, we'll let it be."

**~ o ~**

**Author's Note: This may be somewhat obvious, but just to clarify—when Marielle was thinking about how she was glad Christine had taught her English (so she could communicate with anyone in London), it was because in the previous chapters, none of the characters have been speaking English; they've been speaking French. But obviously, if I'd put all the dialogue in French to make that obvious, probably no one would fully understand it (unless any of my readers are fluent French speakers or they're willing to spend a lot of time copy-pasting the dialogue into Google Translate). So… there.**


	7. Chapter 6: Pursuits

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to littlegirl94, liebedero, IAmTheMaskYouWear, and The Duelist's Heiress for reviewing! Your feedback is really greatly appreciated. Additional thanks goes to BelleAstrum for adding this story to her favorites.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the song **_**Tonight I Wanna Cry **_**by Keith Urban. I just made it that Erik was the original composer of it. I also changed some of the lyrics to make the song suit the time period. (The original lyrics mention a TV, something which obviously wasn't around in the early 1900s.)**

**Anyway, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

Several days later, Marielle exited the Guildhall Art Gallery. She'd first come into the Gallery because she'd found it to be the fifth building she'd discovered for whose construction her father was, in one way or another, responsible for—something which she'd known because, just as it had been with the other four buildings she'd had a particular interest in during her stay in London, the Gallery's building design matched one of Erik's building designs that she had. Upon entering the Gallery, she'd gone about asking most everyone whether he or she knew Erik, but none of them had.

Although she'd been discouraged to yet again find one of her father's buildings only to discover that no one within that building even knew of him, she'd been rather enthralled by the paintings which the Gallery contained—she'd even spent several pounds in order to view a particular exhibition, which was an additional cost because it was only showing for a short time, just so she would see all the art. Thus she'd stayed far longer than she'd intended, and upon glancing at the rather inexpensive watch she'd purchased a few days before, she saw that it was already 7:00 in the evening.

Marielle knew that her next move ought to be having dinner somewhere, seeing as how she'd consumed a rather small, and early, lunch. But she wasn't even hungry—and at that moment, all she really wanted to do was return to the tavern which was the first building of Erik's that she'd discovered. She'd been going on a nightly basis, asking anyone and everyone if they'd ever even _heard_ of a masked man living in London. No one had given her an answer in the affirmative, and maybe no one ever would, but she was determined to frequent the buildings her father had built for as long as she could afford to stay in London so her odds of finding someone who knew of Erik's whereabouts would be rather better than if she merely wandered about the city.

Deciding that she would indeed head for the tavern and then have dinner at some later hour, she cleared her throat a bit, then straightened herself as she began walking in the direction of the tavern. And as she traveled toward the tavern, she pondered upon just how much longer, exactly, she would be able to remain in London.

In the five days that Marielle had been in London, including the day that she'd first arrived, she'd spent about two hundred and sixty-five pounds. That meant she'd been spending about fifty-three pounds a day. The three thousand francs she'd taken from Erik's chest had been converted into approximately three hundred and ninety-three pounds, meaning that she had about one hundred and twenty-eight pounds left. Upon doing a quick calculation in her head, she discovered that such meant that she only had enough money to get through two more whole days—get through two more whole days and then, in all likelihood, not have enough money for a return trip to Paris.

She frowned in a rather anxious fashion, having not really realized that she was so close to no longer being able to afford staying in London until that moment. She didn't want to have to go back to Paris to retrieve more money… she wasn't having much success finding Erik in London, but considering that she'd found one of his building designs actually constructed every day that she'd been there, she had started feeling as if she wasn't too far away from finding him—or, at least, finding someone who knew where she could find him. And more than that, she'd enjoyed being in London. She thought the city was a particularly lovely one, and thus the concept of leaving bothered her.

_But I have to_, she thought to herself, letting out a rather disappointed sigh. _I have to go back to the Opera Populaire, and back to my father's underground home, and get some more money. Otherwise I won't be able to afford looking for him any longer… it's because of that money that I was even able to make it here in the first place. And you know, just because I'm leaving here and going back to Paris doesn't mean that I can't come back once I've gotten more money. I can come back and see if more of my father's buildings are here; I can see if he's actually shown up in the course of my time back in Paris._

Marielle felt satisfied with this line of thinking, and she therefore came up with a plan—after she went to the tavern one more time, she would spend her last evening in London. The next day, she would begin her return trip to Paris, and upon arriving back at the Opera Populaire, she would retrieve more money from Erik's chest in his underground home. Then she would come back to London and spend several more days searching for more of her father's buildings and inquiring about him at those buildings which she'd already discovered. If, after those several more days, she found no more answers as to Erik's whereabouts, she would go to the next city which was on the list she'd discovered in her father's home. And the process would continue until she found him or she ran entirely out of money, whichever came first.

Upon deciding that this was indeed a good plan, she continued on to the tavern in silence—and when it came into her line of vision, she gave a little bit of a smile. Although she still had a strong dislike of any and all things pertaining to alcohol, she enjoyed coming into this tavern, for she felt a connection to it—a connection which she knew to come from the fact that her father had been at least partially responsible for its creation. She also liked the friendly people she'd met when she had come into the tavern, inquiring about Erik—though she knew most of them were only friendly because they were rather the worse for drink.

As Marielle stepped inside the tavern, she glanced toward the bar and saw that the woman who she'd spoken to upon entering the tavern for the first time—whose name, she had learned, was Louisa—was working, just as she'd been every night since Marielle had first come into the tavern four evenings previously.

She raised a hand to Louisa in greeting, also giving her a brief smile—something Louisa didn't see because Marielle was wearing her hood over her head, as she did every time she ventured outside her hotel room. Louisa seemed to sense her smile, however, for she smiled herself as she gave Marielle a brief wave.

Marielle then glanced around the tavern for several moments, doing a brief survey of the evening's patrons and trying to determine who she might first approach in order to ask whether or not he or she had ever heard of a man named Erik Tourneau. There was something of a problem with this plan, however, because there were only about fifteen people in the entire tavern, Louisa and herself included, and the majority of them were regulars—something she'd surmised through having seen them every evening.

Once her eyes fell upon a man who she hadn't seen before, a brief smile of satisfaction flickered across her features. She then cleared her throat, straightened herself, and walked over to the man, unpinning the wad of her father's building designs that she'd been carrying around with her every day as she did so.

For several moments following, Louisa watched the hooded young woman as she crossed the tavern and approached one of the customers, pulling out the building design which was that of the tavern itself and beginning to speak to the man. And despite the grim feeling beginning to rise within Louisa, she couldn't help but smile a bit; she had to admire the girl's tenacity. For the four consecutive evenings that she'd been coming into the tavern, she'd always been told that none of the customers knew of the French gentleman who had constructed the building they were occupying… and yet she'd still come every evening, not wanting to give up, so determined to locate him.

Admittedly, Louisa felt rather bad for having lied to the young woman the first and only time she'd ever asked her whether or not she knew Erik Tourneau, for the fact that the girl continuously came into the tavern, inquiring about him to customers, indicated that for whatever reason, she really wanted to know where he was. If only she knew that he was so close—just over thirty kilometers away, comfortably residing in an executive suite at Claridge's!

But Louisa wasn't permitted to give away her employer in that fashion. For reasons that had never been explained to her, reasons she felt rather certain she didn't really _want_ to know, Monsieur Tourneau didn't want to be found—by anyone. And she knew that if she told the young woman where she could find her quarry, she would lose her job—or worse, for all she knew. She'd only met Erik Tourneau one time upon first being hired to work in the tavern, but that one meeting had been enough to convince her that the Frenchman wasn't someone one wanted to antagonize if he valued his life.

So in order to keep her employment and her head, she had to follow Monsieur Tourneau's instructions—tell no one of his whereabouts, if ever she was asked, and inform him of every time that someone came looking for him. And now that the hooded young woman had come into the tavern once again, it was her job to send another message to her employer and tell him that the girl had returned and was still in pursuit of him. The biggest regret she had regarding this arrangement was that she knew nothing good ever became of those who came around and asked about Erik Tourneau persistently—once they'd come to the tavern and inquired about him five times or so, they never showed up again. And once again, she was certain that she didn't want to know what exactly transpired in order to make them stop appearing. She felt bad for whatever fate was soon to befall the girl.

Keeping an eye on the huntress, who had moved from the customer she'd first approached to another man, she picked up a nearby sheet of paper and pen and proceeded to write a brief note informing Monsieur Tourneau that the hooded girl was still looking for him.

After placing the note in an envelope and sealing it up, she glanced at her twelve-year-old son, Henry, who was sitting in a nearby corner, twiddling his thumbs and waiting to be given something more interesting to do.

"'Ey, Henry," she addressed him, and he lifted his head and looked at her. She motioned him forward. "Com'ere; I've got somethin' for ya."

Henry's face brightened upon receiving this news, and he rose to his feet and loped over to his mother enthusiastically.

"I need ya t' take this to Claridge's," she informed him, holding out the envelope to him. "Room two 'undred an' eighty-four. And quickly."

With a single silent nod, Henry took the envelope and exited the tavern without any hesitation whatsoever. She looked after him for several moments, then turned her attention to the hooded young woman, silently hoping that her employer would receive her message before the girl left.

~ o ~

About ten minutes later, Erik was seated at the piano in his executive suite, composing a new piece—or, rather, finally writing it down. For the music for both the accompaniment and the vocal had been in his head for some time; he merely needed to put both portions of the music on paper and find lyrics that would match the vocalist's notes.

Upon spending several moments studying the music and lyrics he'd already put down, he started playing the song from the beginning, playing as far as he'd gotten with the lyrics.

_Alone in this house again tonight…  
>I've got a record on, the sound turned down,<br>And a bottle of wine…  
>There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me,<br>The way that it was and could have been surrounds me;  
>I'll never get over you<br>Walking away…_

_I've never been the kind  
>To ever let my feelings show<br>And I thought that being strong  
>Meant never losing your self-control,<br>But I'm just drunk enough  
>To let go of my pain—<br>To hell with my pride;  
>Let it fall like rain<br>From my eyes…  
>Tonight I wanna cry…<em>

"That's a rather sad song, Monsieur," a voice commented from behind him, and he glanced backward to see Cameron entering the room.

"Yes," Erik replied with a slight sigh, turning his attention back to the music and lyrics before him. "It's sad indeed."

"Is it going to be part of a new opera?" Cameron inquired as he seated himself on the nearby sofa, keeping his gaze focused on his employer.

"Probably not. I can't think of any opera plot that I'd enjoy writing out that would involve a song such as this one." Erik paused. "No… this is merely a song that's been on my mind for a while; I'm just trying to get it out."

Cameron nodded. "I see. I… I presume it's rather personal?"

Erik stiffened with slight annoyance; he didn't like it when the young man asked too many questions about his past. After all, he was a very private man… he hadn't even come close to telling Cameron about the happiest twenty-four hour period of his life, a period when Christine had been his, a period during which he'd begun to hope once more. Nor had he told him of the incredible pain he'd gone through upon discovering that she'd merely been telling him pretty lies…

"I fail to see where that's any of your concern," he therefore responded after several moments, giving Cameron a somewhat stern look.

"My apologies," Cameron murmured, his face turning a light shade of pink as he bowed his head just slightly. "I didn't mean to pry."

Shrugging, Erik turned his attention back to the music once more, playing the piano accompaniment as he hummed the vocalist's notes that had yet to receive lyrics. All the while he thought about the memories which were responsible for this song's creation; he thought about the way he had excitedly paced about the Paris train station one afternoon twenty-one years earlier, waiting for his Christine to join him, and the way his heart had shattered into millions of tiny pieces upon realizing that in fact, Christine wasn't his—and maybe she never had been, nor would she ever be.

The hurt he'd felt after Christine's second abandonment filled his heart once more, and he took a deep breath in an attempt to keep his emotions from showing. After all, Cameron was sitting right behind him—and as far as Cameron knew, Erik Tourneau wasn't much of an emotional man. What a lie that was.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Cameron rose from the sofa and went to answer it while Erik continued playing, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the verbal exchange occurring between Cameron and whoever had come to the door. He instead began to get lost in the music, thinking about how it had felt to hold Christine in his arms, how it had felt to believe that she finally belonged to him, how it had felt to come to the realization that she'd played him for a fool once again…

"Here, Monsieur," Cameron then said as he returned to the parlor, holding an envelope and Erik's letter-opener out to his employer.

Erik stopped playing, hitting a few wrong notes on the piano in the process, and turned his attention to the two items which were being extended to him. All the while he felt a double-dose of aggravation, one for Cameron having interrupted his playing and the other at the sight of yet another blasted envelope. Ever since he'd first received a message from Louisa four days earlier, he'd been getting notes every single day—one from Louisa and others from those who ran other buildings that were his current source of income… and the messages contained within the notes had been very much the same.

"Who is it from _now?_" he grumbled slightly, rather roughly taking the envelope and letter-opener and beginning to open the envelope.

"It's from Peter," Cameron replied, a bit of a frown upon his face, for he felt reasonably certain that he knew what message the masked man would find within the envelope.

Erik got the envelope open and then pulled out the piece of paper within, unfolding it and then running his eyes across the paper. Just as he'd suspected, the message on the paper was the same as other notes he'd received for the past few days—an announcement that a young Frenchwoman, who wore a hood on her head in order to conceal her identity, had come around, making inquiries about him, and had had possession of yet another one of his building designs.

When Erik said and did nothing to indicate what the note had said, Cameron cleared his throat and ventured, "Is it…?"

"Yes," Erik muttered irritably, ripping the note and envelope apart. Then he stood up, going over to the fireplace and placing the ripped-up papers in the fire. "That girl is _still_ looking for me. She went to the Gallery today."

"Well…" Cameron shrugged and let out a little bit of a sigh. "She's been finding a building every day for the past five days… which is only encouraging her, apparently."

"How does she have any inkling that I'm here?" Erik demanded. "And how does she have all these building designs?"

Cameron shrugged once more. "I don't know, sir. I don't know."

"This doesn't make sense to me," Erik said with a sigh, beginning to pace in front of the fire. "It's not as if I just _left_ all those building designs lying about in some public place. I can't imagine where she would have gotten hold of them, since besides having them here with me, I've only got copies—"

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped dead in his tracks, his body stiffening. A lump of anxiety rose in Cameron's throat; the fact that his employer had just stopped the way he had meant that he'd come to some realization—one that probably wasn't very pleasant.

"Cameron?" Erik inquired then, and the sudden softness of his tone made Cameron feel even more nervous. There were times when Erik's quiet tone of voice was more intimidating than his shouting.

Swallowing rather hard, Cameron responded, "Sir?"

For a moment or two, the masked man remained still, and then he rather slowly turned toward his young employee. There was a certain look in his eyes, one which made Cameron's heart begin to race, one which told Cameron that the thoughts running through Erik's mind were probably rather dangerous.

"We have to get rid of this girl as soon as possible," Erik then informed Cameron in a rather solemn fashion, his voice still quiet. "She _knows_… she knows that I used to live underneath the Opera Populaire. And in some way or another, she gained access to my home. That's how she got hold of the building designs. She knows I'm Le Fantôme."

"Oh," Cameron murmured, his forehead creasing in anxiety. "That really isn't good."

Erik nodded. "She knows too much—far, far, too much for a mere stranger to know. If we let her carry on as she is, going about and asking questions about me, she could bring me some serious trouble."

"Yes," Cameron agreed, his voice rather soft. "What… what do you think her intent is, Monsieur?"

"I was thinking that perhaps she was merely interested in my architecture, but now…" Erik turned toward the fire, staring into the flames in order to conceal the anxiety which was beginning to well within him. "Now I'm starting to think she's part of La Sûreté."

Cameron raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A woman on the French police force? I didn't think women were permitted in law enforcement in France."

"They weren't, last time I was there," Erik replied, frowning a little as he shook his head. "But then again, that was twenty-one years ago… I'm sure there have been many changes as far as women's rights are concerned. If she's part of La Sûreté, however, I daresay she's one of the first of her kind."

"But..." Cameron scratched his head a bit. "If it's been twenty-one years since you were even in France, why are the police trying to find you now?"

"She's probably the overly ambitious type, this woman," Erik said, some annoyance toward this woman, who he was now suspecting of being a police officer, showing in his tone. "She's new to La Sûreté and is trying to prove herself. She thinks that she'll earn the respect of her male peers and prove herself worthy of being in law enforcement if she brings the Opera Ghost to justice after he's eluded the authorities for so long…"

"Well, if such is her intent, she's doing a rather good job of getting it done," Cameron admitted with a little bit of a shrug. "I mean, she got into your underground home, got hold of your building designs, and has somehow discovered that you were, at one point or another, here in London—and apparently thinks that you're here now. She's obviously rather intelligent."

Erik gave the young man a rather dark look. "If you're done admiring the person who's trying to put me in jail, Cameron, I'll continue."

"Sorry," Cameron mumbled, his face reddening a bit. "Please go ahead."

"This girl is too much of a threat, especially since I'm really becoming convinced that she's in law enforcement," Erik then went on. He cleared his throat, straightening himself a bit. "We're going to have to track her down and let her know that her poking and prodding about isn't welcome."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Erik and Cameron briefly shared a look. Then, with a little frown, Cameron went over to the door and opened it to see Henry, Louisa's son. He had an envelope in his hand.

Upon seeing the envelope and feeling certain that he knew what the envelope contained, Cameron wanted to yell at Henry to get lost and take his damned envelope with him—just like his employer, he was tired of these notes which told of a mysterious young Frenchwoman who was in search of the masked man. But he couldn't do that, seeing as how Erik was now determined to locate the woman and inform her that she ought to make herself scarce.

Letting out a light sigh and muttering a "Thank you" to Henry, Cameron took the envelope and walked back over to Erik, closing the door as he went. He held the envelope out to the older man, noting with slight unease that Erik's mouth had suddenly set itself in a hard line.

Erik snatched the envelope out of Cameron's hand, opening it with his bare hands instead of bothering with the letter-opener, and pulled out the folded piece of paper within. A look of frustration came into his grey-green eyes as he opened up the note and read what it had to say.

"Well, then," he said after a moment, ripping up the note and envelope and tossing them into the fire as he had with the note he'd received earlier. He then turned his attention to Cameron. "Louisa says the girl is at the tavern at this very moment. So I want you to go now, keep an eye on the girl while she's still in the tavern, and then follow her for a bit once she departs… and whenever you feel the time is right, corner her and tell her that she would do well to leave London immediately."

"Yes, sir," Cameron replied with a nod, quickly turning and picking up his nearby trenchcoat and hat. He put them on. "How should I threaten her? I mean, I'm sure you want me to do something physical in order to further get the point across that she should go away…"

At that, Erik walked over to the nearby desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a revolver. After checking that it had bullets and ensuring that the hammer wasn't pulled back so the gun wouldn't accidentally go off, he tossed it to Cameron. Cameron caught it with ease.

"Use your imagination."

Cameron examined the revolver in his hands for several moments, a sense of dread beginning to rise within him. He wasn't a man of violence, and he especially didn't want to hurt a woman. After all, if she really was a police officer, she was only doing her job…

Erik saw the uneasy expression which came to the young man's face and sighed. "Come now, Cameron. You know I'm not asking you to actually _harm_ the girl; I no longer get any kind of satisfaction from shedding blood. Don't fire unless you deem it absolutely necessary."

Letting out a sigh of relief, Cameron nodded, placing the gun in his pocket and then looking at his employer.

"Go now," Erik ordered then, making a somewhat dismissive gesture toward the door. "You don't want to show up at the tavern only to find that she's already gone."

"Right," Cameron agreed, suddenly being spurred into action, and headed toward the door. "I'll be back."

And then, without waiting for Erik to speak another word, he left the suite, closing the door behind him as he went. Then he headed out of Claridge's quickly, walking toward the tavern with quick, purposeful steps.

Despite his hurried pace, however, he wasn't particularly looking forward to what he had to do. By his very nature, Cameron MacAlister was not a hostile man—nor was he confrontational. He liked to think that he was a friendly sort of person—and indeed, he was; he preferred positive interaction with his fellow man and he liked getting along with those around him. He disliked having to be too overly serious or too harsh with people. Unfortunately, more often than not, being in Erik Tourneau's employ required that he do both.

It wasn't that Cameron didn't enjoy his job—far from it. Cameron liked Monsieur Tourneau, even if his employer's love of privacy prevented him from actually knowing much of anything about the masked man personally. Although he knew Erik had committed many past wrongdoings, he'd gathered that most of those actions had been performed out of some kind of necessity and that Erik had largely moved past that dark stage, only reverting to it whenever there was some kind of imminent danger to his life of peaceful seclusion. And despite the fact that his employer was generally a very staid person, Cameron knew that there were many admirable qualities to be found within Erik if one was patient enough to wait a while in order to discover them—in the five years during which he had been employed by the Frenchman, he'd learned that Erik had a sizable capacity for kindness and generosity, a dry and quick-witted sense of humor, and a sense of familial responsibility to those who proved themselves to be loyal employees. Truly, though Cameron likely wouldn't admit it aloud, he had come to see Erik as the father he'd never really had—always looking out for him, really asking very little of him in exchange for all that he was given.

The job itself wasn't difficult, either, for the most part. Cameron supposed he could call himself Erik's "jack-of-all-trades" or "right-hand man" and be correct in it. For although Erik had several other men that he occasionally gave assignments, he gave the vast majority of the responsibility to Cameron, and if there was some instance where Erik required that a group of his employees undertake some task, he put Cameron at the head of the operation. And being the "jack-of-all-trades" or "right-hand man" required doing anything and everything his employer asked of him, most of which didn't really require a lot of thought or effort—go pick up this and that, go give all the other employees their salaries, be the middleman in most business dealings, and so on. It was only the inglorious tasks Cameron was occasionally given that bothered him—such as the one which he was setting out to perform right then, which was going to threaten some stranger who was sniffing about too much for Erik's liking.

_But he said you don't have to actually use the gun_, he thought to himself, trying to tell himself that there was no real need to feel uncomfortable with the assignment he'd been given. _Just let her know you're armed whenever you're telling her to get lost; that ought to scare her off sufficiently…_

His thought trailed off as he caught sight of the tavern, and then he cleared his throat and straightened himself, picking up his pace just a bit. And in the few moments before he entered the tavern, he put himself into a serious and determined mindset, knowing that it was time to play the role of Erik Tourneau's solemn right-hand man.

Then Cameron stepped inside the establishment, his eyes meeting Louisa's as the door closed behind him. He gave her a short nod of acknowledgment, one which she returned, and then briefly swept his gaze over the tavern so he might see whether or not Monsieur Tourneau's hooded pursuer was still around.

After he didn't see anyone wearing a hood, he turned his attention back to Louisa, walking over to the bar and removing his hat.

"'Ere," she said to him, taking hold of a nearby clean glass and filling it with draft beer. She set it atop the counter, pushing it over to him. "On the house."

"Oh, no, I won't do that," he replied with a shake of his head, reaching inside his pocket and producing two pound notes. He set them on top of the counter, tapping them, before picking up the glass with that same hand. "He wouldn't accept a free drink if he came in, so I won't, either."

She nodded, knowing that "he" had been referring to Erik and Cameron had called him "he" just in case someone nearby overhead their conversation. Then she took the notes, sticking them in some unseen repository underneath the counter.

For several moments, there was a silence between them as he took a sip of the beer. Once he'd finished with that sip, he let out a sigh and set the glass down, then made his query, a serious expression on his face.

"Is she still here?"

"Mmm-hmm," she murmured, nodding once more. She then inclined her head forward slightly, breaking their eye contact and looking straight ahead. "Back lef' corner."

Clearing his throat, he somewhat slowly turned toward the back left corner of the tavern, trying to be subtle about it in case his quarry happened to be in such a position that she could see him. After all, when he made his threat to her, he wanted to remain anonymous; he didn't want her to know that they had, in fact, been in the tavern together.

After several moments, he caught sight of her—and he knew that she had to be his target because she was wearing a hood. He couldn't see much more of her because her back was turned to him, but he did see that she had a pinned-together wad of papers and pound notes sitting upon the table at which she sat. She'd apparently removed one piece of paper from the wad, as she was studying it.

Keeping his gaze on her, he reached for his beer, picking it up and making to take a sip as he said to Louisa, "Tell me about her."

"Well, 'ave you read the notes I've been sendin' to 'im?"

He shook his head, the top of the glass bare millimeters from his lips. "He's told me what's been in the notes, though. So I know everything that you and everyone else have been telling him—"

"Everyone else?" she echoed as he sipped his drink, and although he didn't see it, she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," he replied, clearing his throat a bit as he set the glass back atop the counter. "You're not the only one she's talked to. She's discovered four more buildings of his—and she figured out that they were his because she had the building designs for them, just like with here."

"Smart girl," she murmured, sounding rather impressed. "I wonder how she 'as those designs, though…"

"He thinks she's French police."

"Oh?" She looked a little worried, though once again, he didn't see it. "What makes 'im think that?"

"Well, the designs she's got were in his home back in Paris," he informed her, still not looking at her and instead keeping his eyes on the hooded young woman. "And he can't imagine why anyone would be there except the police."

"I see."

He nodded, and then he continued, "So when I say _Tell me about her_, I don't mean for you to describe her the way you've been doing in the notes. I mean… tell me about her routine, what she orders to drink… anything you know about what she does around town and in here."

"Ah." She cleared her throat. "Well, she's been comin' in at about seven o'clock every night. She goes 'round, talks t' all the customers, shows 'em the building design. Once she's done that, she seats herself in tha' same spot and just sits for a bit. And sometimes she has somethin' to drink as well, though it's nothing alcoholic. She jus' has water."

"Mmm. Anything else?"

"No," she replied with a shake of her head. "She hasn' told me anything abou' what she does outside of 'ere."

Upon hearing this, he nodded once more, picking up his glass and making to take a sip of his beer. "Thank you."

For several moments, neither of them said anything; they merely watched the hooded young woman while he drank. Then, however, she made a query.

"So what's 'e told ya to do with 'er?"

"The same as I've done with everyone else who's come sniffing about," he replied with a shrug. "Threaten her, let her know that her prodding is unacceptable… tell her that it would be best for everyone if she left."

"Oh. I thought 'e might make you do somethin' different because he thinks she's the police." She paused, clearing her throat. "Y'know, something violent."

He shook his head. "He doesn't want to cause any injury, directly or indirectly, unless it's absolutely necessary. We'll only go further if she doesn't listen."

"Well, then I hope she listens," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Upon hearing this, he shrugged, and then they both fell into silence as they observed the mysterious pursuer, waiting to see when she would choose to depart from the tavern, as she looked through several of the papers in the pinned-together wad she had.

After a considerable time had passed, Cameron let out an impatient and frustrated sigh, feeling rather annoyed. His glass was empty and he'd turned down Louisa's offer for a refill, and thus he no longer had any way to pass the time, making the fact that he was just _watching_ this girl all the more irritating. He'd told Monsieur Tourneau that he would take care of the matter, but he hadn't expected it to be so time-consuming… in fact, he'd been thinking that he would miss seeing her, even, and that he'd have to wait for her to appear some other time in order to confront her. That had been proven wrong, however, and instead he was obliged to merely sit about, looking rather like a fool, and wait for the hooded young woman to do something.

The clock on the wall showed that he spent half an hour watching the girl without doing anything else before, at long last, she folded up the sheets of paper she'd studied, placed them back with the wad, and then rose to her feet.

Knowing she was apparently about to leave, he cleared his throat and turned away so she wouldn't see his face. He looked intently at Louisa, who had taken note of the hooded young woman's movements as well, waiting for some kind of indication that she was departing.

"Yes, she's about to go," she said quietly to him, giving him a rather fleeting glance while keeping most of her attention on his target. "She's comin' forward right now…"

He placed a hand over his face and lowered his head slightly in a gesture that made it look as if he was deep in thought or something to that effect, but in fact, he was concealing his face from the hooded young woman to ensure that she wouldn't know who was threatening her later on. And because he had his eyes covered, he didn't see Louisa and the hooded young woman exchange departing waves and he didn't see her exit the tavern.

"All right, she's gone," she told him several moments later, at which point he removed his hand from his face and rose to his feet. "She went east."

"Thank you," he replied quickly, placing his hat back atop his head and leaving the tavern in the same hasty fashion, desperate not to lose his quarry after having just observed her for a rather long time.

As it turned out, however, he didn't need to be concerned about losing sight of the hooded young woman, because upon stepping out of the tavern and beginning to head east, he saw her walking along some number of steps ahead of him.

He let out a sigh of relief, glad that he hadn't lost track of her after having spent a considerable amount of time watching her. Then he cleared his throat and straightened himself a bit, sticking his hand inside the trenchcoat pocket which contained the revolver Erik had given him earlier. Wrapping his hand around the gun, he followed his target, staying a good twenty steps behind her in order to ensure that if she happened to turn around, he would be able to duck out of her line of vision and prevent her from seeing his face.

For several kilometers, he kept following her, admittedly feeling a little bit anxious. There were a rather sizable number of people about; thus he didn't feel comfortable approaching her and threatening her with the revolver in his pocket. After all, he didn't want someone else to see the gun and get him into some kind of trouble because of it—especially if that someone else happened to see the gun while he was pointing it at the hooded young woman. He also didn't want to find that she would go into some building before he was able to confront her, seeing as how he wouldn't know when he would see her again after that point—because he certainly wasn't going to follow her into another establishment and threaten her there. For various reasons, that was much too risky.

After a little more time had passed, he and the hooded young woman were no longer surrounded by people—they were only one of about five people on the entire sidewalk within a ten-meter radius. It was time for him to act.

Clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders in a determined fashion, he strode toward his quarry, picking up his pace so that he might catch up to her. And when he was bare millimeters behind the girl, he pulled out the revolver, feeling glad that his sleeves were long enough that the gun was somewhat concealed underneath the sleeve despite the fact that it was rather sizable.

Marielle suddenly heard a _click_ coming from behind her, and then something round and rather hard became pressed against her back. She froze and stiffened, having realized that someone was putting a gun to her back.

"Don't move," an Englishman's voice instructed in a low, unemotional tone. "Don't make a sound."

She did as she'd been told and remained perfectly still, looking straight ahead and silently hoping that she wasn't about to get robbed. She hardly had any money as it was—she only had enough to afford one more night in her hotel and for getting back to Paris, really. And if this man, whoever he was, took all her money, she would be utterly stuck. She wouldn't even be able to stay in the hotel anymore…

"Now, listen to me very carefully," the man continued, sounding rather stern. "Erik Tourneau is not a man who wants to be found…"

Upon hearing her father's name, Marielle clenched her hands into tight fists, her heart beginning to pound wildly. So she _had_ been getting close to him all along! He was in London and he knew someone was looking for him!

"… And nothing good ever becomes of those who are persistent in looking for him," the man said, apparently having not taken any notice of her earlier reaction. "They get warned to go away… but if they don't listen to those warnings, well…"

His voice trailed off, and then Marielle felt the gun press further into her back. A little gasp escaped from her lips, a lump rose in her throat, and then she began trembling, feeling uncertain as to what this man's intent was. He had a gun trained on her, he was telling her that bad things happened to those who searched for her father… did that mean that he was about to kill her?

_Oh, God, please don't_, she thought to the man desperately, squeezing her eyes shut in terror. _You just told me that my father is here, he's here in London… I don't want to die without meeting him._

"So if you have any sense of self-preservation," the men went on, a dangerous warning edge now in his tone, "you'll go back where you came from and forget all about Monsieur Tourneau. Am I clear?"

Marielle swallowed hard, ridding herself of the lump in her throat, and nodded fervently.

The man said no more, and then, all of a sudden, the gun was removed from her back. She whirled around so she might see who had been confronting her, but unfortunately, there were a rather sizable number of people behind her who were walking in the direction opposite of the direction in which she was walking.

She let out a long breath of relief, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to calm herself. She was terrified; after all, she'd just been threatened by a complete stranger and for a few moments, she'd been under the distinct impression that she was going to be murdered…

But those threats had occurred because she was close to her father! He was somewhere in the city; the searching she'd been doing for the past five days hadn't been for naught!

_I can't leave_, she thought to herself with determination. _I can't leave now knowing that he's here… because for all I know, he doesn't live here—he may just be having a brief interlude here, and by the time I get to Paris and back, he may have left already. I can't take that risk knowing that he's just out of my reach! I have to stay, no matter how little money I have._

With these thoughts in her head, she straightened herself and continued in the direction she'd been going before she'd been accosted by the stranger, heading toward Ashley's Hotel. She knew what she had to do—once she arrived back at the hotel, she would check out in order to help preserve her money so she would be able to afford food for a little bit longer. Where she would spend her nights, seeing as how she wouldn't have a hotel room starting that evening, was a little beyond her. But it didn't matter that she wouldn't have a bed to sleep on—it wouldn't even matter if she wound up having to go hungry because she might run out of money before finding her father.

_All that matters is that I stay here_, she thought. _I have to stay here… and I have to find him. Maybe the few days leading up to the moment we finally meet will be uncomfortable; maybe I won't have food or a decent place to sleep. But that will be a small price to pay for finding my father. I can't let him get away from me no matter what!_

Taking a deep breath, she continued on toward Ashley's Hotel, her heart beginning to pound in excitement. To think she had been about to leave London when she'd been so close to her father all along! Even though being accosted by the man who had spoken to her had scared her a bit, she wouldn't allow herself to be discouraged, not when she was so close to reaching her goal.

_I need to be brave_, she decided, letting out a little bit of a sigh. _Because in the days to come, I may receive more threats… and they may be worse than the one I just got. But I can't let them discourage me! I have to keep looking… and I just have to hope that my father and I will meet before I get killed._

After a few more minutes, she arrived back at the hotel, where she proceeded to go to the room she'd been occupying since her arrival in London. She packed all her things, placing them in her carpetbag, and then went down to the front desk. Once she'd paid the forty pounds she still owed for having stayed the previous night, she left the hotel for the final time.

Upon arriving outside the hotel, she looked around somewhat uncertainly for a few moments, trying to decide where she ought to spend her nights from that point on.

She could try going to a homeless shelter, but she worried about being turned down because of her mask, so she felt that she would just avoid that issue by not attempting to gain access into a homeless shelter. She could sleep in one of the bathrooms of Paddington Station… or, perhaps, on one of the benches on the platforms. Or maybe on a bench in Hyde Park…

_None of those sound safe_, she thought to herself, biting her lip in a gesture of anxiety. _I could be mugged or raped or killed by some insane person… I'd be so exposed. Of course, if I don't particularly want to be exposed, I really should be staying in the hotel. But if I do that, I'll go hungry rather quickly because I'd rather have to use money that I'd use for food in order to pay for the hotel room. And I only have enough money for a few more days in the hotel, anyway—soon enough I'd have to go because I wouldn't be able to pay anymore, so it's better that I've left now, I suppose. But where should I go… where, of any places outside, would I be less exposed?_

For several more moments, she stood in front of the hotel and thought about where she might go, and then she came to her decision—she would merely sleep in an alley, for she wouldn't be very exposed if she tucked herself away in an alley. After all, it wasn't as if people really went looking in alleys, anyway, so the odds that someone would see her seemed rather slim. And since she would no longer have a relatively-close-by bathroom as she had in the hotel, she would just have to make do with cleaning herself as best she could in one of the Paddington Station's bathrooms every morning.

Overall, the situation she was putting herself in was less than desirable, but she knew it would be worthwhile in the end. Her persistence would be rewarded when she finally met her father.

At that point, her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't had dinner yet. She therefore went on her way, heading toward one of the closest restaurants so she might get something to eat. All the while she felt confident that she was making the right decision and felt excited at the knowledge that she would come face-to-face with her father soon enough.


	8. Chapter 7: Revelations

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to liebedero and The Duelist's Heiress for their reviews! I really appreciate it, my dears.**

**And now, without any further ado…**

**~ o ~**

Erik sat before the fireplace in his suite at Claridge's, reading the note Louisa had sent him the night previously for what was likely the fifth time, his manner one which was both perturbed and curious.

Two days had passed since Cameron had threatened the young Frenchwoman searching for him, the one who Erik believed to be part of La Sûreté. According to Cameron, he had informed the woman that Erik wasn't a man who wanted to be found and that she would do well to merely return to Paris and forget about pursuing the masked man. In the two days since that event had occurred, however, the notes had still been pouring in—although to Erik's relief, the girl had yet to discover any more of his buildings.

In the face of this woman's indifference to the threats which had been made against her well-being, Erik found himself feeling conflicted. On one hand, of course he was annoyed that the supposed policewoman was evidently so stupid that she ignored death threats and continued to pursue him when he didn't want to be found by anyone, especially not anyone in law enforcement. It was almost as if she was willing to die if it meant getting anywhere close to catching the infamous Opera Ghost!

But then again, the girl's persistent manner reminded him of himself—or, at least, the way he'd been in days past; it somewhat shamed him to admit it, but years of living in nearly-absolute solitude had made him lose most of that stubborn streak which had been so prominent in him when he'd been younger. And because he saw a bit of himself in the way the young woman was behaving now, he actually felt a small sense of—dare he say it?—admiration.

Yes, he admired the girl. She was the first person to defy his threats in years, which he felt to be proof of her determination and, by all appearances, bravery.

He let out a light sigh, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. Damn him for getting so old and soft! Instead of bringing legitimate harm to the young woman if she continued to ignore his threats, he was actually halfway considering merely bribing her to make herself scarce. And that was something he never would have contemplated under any circumstances when he'd been younger…

Why should he accommodate her, though? If she wanted to risk life and limb by pursuing him, she ought to get exactly what she wanted, shouldn't she? Why should he bribe someone who was stupid enough to get tangled up in Erik Tourneau's affairs?

_No_, he then thought to himself with sudden fierce determination, rising to his feet in a rather abrupt manner. _No, I won't bribe her. Like hell I'll bribe her! Why should I be willing to pay off some girl who's too stupid to obey a death threat when it's given to her? Anyone with even a _hint_ of a logical brain ought to fear death at the Opera Ghost's hands. The girl is obviously a fool._

There was a knock at the door.

"What?" Erik snapped as he turned his attention to entryway of the suite, his sudden irritation evident in his tone and the note he'd been poring over getting crinkled as he clenched both his hands into fists.

Cameron then entered, stepping inside the suite and closing and locking the door behind him. He looked anxious. Erik noted, with further frustration, that he had an envelope in one hand.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Monsieur Tourneau," Cameron said somewhat uneasily, clearing his throat and stepping closer to his employer. He tentatively extended the envelope to Erik. "This—this came for you—"

Before the younger man had the opportunity to finish his sentence, Erik had snatched the envelope out of his hands, ripping it and the note he'd been holding to shreds without even thinking about opening the envelope.

"This girl should be gone!" he shouted at Cameron, causing the blond to jump in surprise. "Do you hear me? _Gone!_"

The Englishman swallowed hard in a way which was both audible and visible. "Yes, sir. I understand. I—I don't know why she hasn't left yet—"

"Where is she now?" the masked man demanded harshly, interrupting Cameron. "At the tavern again?"

"Yes, sir."

"She's going to have her foolish persistence rewarded tonight," Erik then informed his employee. "I want you to go to the tavern. Take the security men with you. Once she's left the tavern, corner her and then bring her to me."

Erik's voice was suddenly incredibly icy, and Cameron began to feel a terrible fear as to what his employer might do to the young woman. He didn't ask any questions or make any statements, however—if the Frenchman was going to harm the girl, he didn't want to know about it. Thus he merely nodded in silence.

"Make sure you put something over her head so she can't see where you're taking her," Erik continued after a few moments. "After all, if I decide to let her go, I don't want her to be able to find me again."

Cameron nodded once more, a slight relief going through him upon hearing that the older man was at least considering not bringing too much harm to the young woman.

"Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, boy?" Erik then demanded, interrupting Cameron's thoughts. He pointed at the door. "Go!"

With a light jolt, Cameron immediately turned and put on his trenchcoat, then exited the suite quickly, heading to the ground floor and to the bar where he knew he would find the three men Erik had called "the security men." In Cameron's opinion, "brute squad" would be a more appropriate term; the men where the roughest people the young man had ever known and, truthfully, he didn't like dealing with them. But he supposed that Erik knew how he didn't like to be forceful with others and therefore, the three men would have to get the job done—they would be the ones physically responsible for bringing Monsieur Tourneau's young pursuer to him.

After a few minutes, Cameron arrived at the bar, where he rather quickly found the three men—Humphrey, Mason, and Kenny.

"Wha' d'ya want, runt?" Mason, who seemed to be the head of the trio, sneered upon seeing Cameron approach the table at which the three men were sitting. It was no secret to Cameron that the security men disliked him just as much as he disliked them—and perhaps even moreso; they didn't like that Cameron was Erik's right-hand man, for they were of the opinion that any one of them was more capable of running things than Cameron. Because Cameron was smaller in stature than all three men, they often called him "runt."

Cameron ignored the intended insult and straightened himself. "Monsieur Tourneau has a job for you three. We need to get someone and bring her to him—now."

"A woman, eh?" Humphrey inquired, inhaling his cigar deeply, apparently not moved by the urgency which Cameron was trying to get across. Then he took it out of his mouth, blowing a cloud of smoke right into Cameron's face. "He wants a whore? We know some good ones."

To his slight dismay, Cameron coughed a little upon having the smoke blown into his face. "No, that's not what he wants. There's a particular person who's wanted to find him… and tonight, you three gentlemen are going to grant her wish. And I would appreciate it if you didn't blow any more of that in my face."

Humphrey didn't say anything which indicated that he would obey the younger man's request, instead letting out a grunt as he held his cigar in one hand and picked up his glass of whiskey with the other.

Letting out a somewhat impatient sigh upon seeing that none of the three men were making to rise from their table, Cameron took hold of Humphrey's cigar and glass, setting the glass atop the table and then sticking the cigar in the glass, extinguishing the tiny flame within it by placing the burning end of the cigar in the whiskey.

"Hey!" Humphrey protested with booming indignation, suddenly rising to his feet. His two comrades stood up as well, looking equally frustrated with the young man before them. "I wasn't done with those!"

"Well, you are now," Cameron replied, perfectly calm and detached. "You can have another drink and cigar when you're done with this job."

"I'm tired of working for that French bastard," Kenny said suddenly, his voice so loud that it almost made Cameron's ears ring. "Why can't he just leave us be?"

"You're rather good at what you do, as it happens," Cameron snapped, angered by the insult toward his employer. "And you know, _that French bastard_ has been buying your whiskey, cigars, whores, and whatever other things you buy ever since he hired you. So unless you want to find another way to pay for those things, I suggest you follow me now. Time is of the essence with this job."

And then, without waiting for any of the men to argue with him, he turned on his heel and began to exit the hotel. The three men exchanged glances for several moments, then followed the young man grudgingly.

For a short while, all four men walked in silence as they headed toward the tavern. Once this short while had passed, however, Mason made an inquiry of Cameron.

"So who's this girl 'e wants us t' get, runt?"

"A woman who's been looking for him for the past week," Cameron replied without a single backward glance toward Mason and his comrades. "He doesn't like how much she's been sniffing around, so he's decided that he's going to confront her personally."

"Mmm. An' is this girl, ah, attractive?"

Cameron certainly didn't appreciate the way the older man emphasized the word _attractive_ and the way Humphrey and Kenny chuckled upon his saying it, for it meant that they only had one thing on their minds, which caused him to let out a sigh. Yet another reason he didn't like working with these men—he found them perverse.

"I wouldn't know," he replied after a few moments in spite of the fact that he really hadn't wanted to dignify that query with a response. "She wears a hood over her head all the time."

Upon hearing this answer, Mason shrugged a little bit, something Cameron didn't see. Then the rest of the journey to the tavern continued on in silence.

When the four men had arrived at the tavern, Cameron motioned for the "security men" to remain outside, then stepped into the establishment himself.

"Where is she?" he demanded of Louisa as he stepped up to the bar, too distracted by the urgency of his new task to give her a proper greeting.

"Just sittin'," she answered, motioning behind him.

He turned around to where she'd pointed rather quickly, at which point his eyes immediately fell upon the hooded huntress. And upon seeing her, a sudden sense of hostility rose within him. It was true that he didn't want any kind of harm to befall anyone because of his employer, but he didn't like the fact that this woman had ignored the threats which had been given to her and continued sticking her nose in places where it didn't belong. And if this woman was in French law enforcement as Monsieur Tourneau believed, she could present a very strong danger to Erik.

"'E's told you to do somethin'," Louisa said after a few moments. "Hasn' 'e?"

Not even bothering to look back at her, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the girl, he nodded. "He wants us to bring her to him."

"Us?" she echoed, her tone suddenly sounding rather grim.

He nodded once more. "The security men are outside."

She let out a long breath. "God 'elp her. They're plain awful."

"Don't I know it." He paused, looking at the young woman for several more moments, before turning back to Louisa. "Do you happen to have some kind of sack that I could put over her head? He doesn't want her to see where we're taking her."

"Oh, sure," she replied, reaching underneath the counter and producing a medium-sized burlap sack after several moments. She held it out to him.

"Thank you," he said, taking it from her. "Well, I've got to go back outside now. I don't want her to see me."

At this, she nodded, and then she ventured in a rather hesitant tone, "Tell… tell 'im to go easy on 'er. I don't know 'er that well, o' course, but she seems like a nice girl, a good girl."

"I can't make any promises," he replied with a slight frown, something which came from the fact that he felt bad that he couldn't make promises as to the young woman's future well-being. "He's a single-minded man. If he's already made up his mind that he's going to do her some kind of harm, I seriously doubt there'll be any convincing him to do otherwise. But… if he lets me speak any, I'll try."

This response seemed to satisfy her at least a little bit, for she nodded once more. And then, without another word being exchanged between them, he turned and exited the tavern.

"Did we miss 'er already?" Mason demanded upon seeing that Cameron was by himself.

"No," Cameron replied, clearing his throat and putting a hand in his pocket as he stepped closer to the security men. "She's in there, but we're obviously not going to just pick her up and carry her out of the tavern. We'll wait until she comes out, get her alone, and then grab her—and it'll be when _I_ say to do it and not a moment before."

Mason didn't give any response, instead nodding silently. Humphrey and Kenny did the same.

"Put this over her head right before you get her," Cameron continued after several moments, handing the sack to Mason. "He doesn't want her seeing where we're taking her."

Humphrey let out a rather impatient sigh. "Anything else?"

"Move back into that alley," Cameron then instructed, motioning to the alley which was behind the three men. "If she comes out and starts walking in our direction, I don't want her to see all four of us just lingering about. She might get worried… and we don't want any alarms going off in her head. We want her to be taken completely by surprise."

Upon receiving this order, the three men complied, disappearing into the dark alley almost entirely. Cameron stayed on the sidewalk, leaning against the building and then merely waiting for Monsieur Tourneau's hooded pursuer to exit the tavern.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait very long—after ten minutes' time, the young woman stepped out of the tavern. She didn't even glance in the direction of Cameron and the other three men, instead turning the other way and beginning to walk.

Cameron looked back at the security men, motioning them forward and then turning his attention back to the girl. Then he began walking after her, the three other men following him.

Once some indefinite period of time had passed, the sidewalk was finally empty enough that the four men and their quarry were really the only ones walking around anywhere nearby. It would now be easy to grab the girl and go back to Claridge's without having anyone really take notice.

Upon realizing that the opportunity had come, he motioned the men forward, then stopped and watched them as they increased their speed, walking past him and closing in on the young woman from behind.

All of a sudden, something was placed over Marielle's head, shrouding her in darkness, and she let out a gasp of terror as she was then grabbed from behind.

She was obviously in some kind of danger, and she therefore struggled vigorously in order to break away from her unknown assailant, crying out in terrible fear when two other sets of hands took hold of her. And as it had been the last time someone had attempted putting her in some kind of danger, she silently hoped that her attackers weren't about to rob her, otherwise she would be absolutely stuck in London with no means of paying for food.

"She's a hellcat, this one!" a man's gravelly voice suddenly laughed behind her, thus allowing her to hear what one of the men holding onto her sounded like. He tightened his grip on her. "Maybe we ought to get her to relax a little bit…"

"No!" a voice commanded rather harshly, and Marielle recognized the voice as belonging to the man who had threatened her two days previously. Judging by how far away his voice was, he wasn't one of people holding onto her. "You're only to take her where you've been told to take her and nothing more. Now let's go!"

Marielle didn't know where she was being taken, nor was she entirely sure why she was being roughly handled in this manner, but she felt reasonably certain that she was about to be killed before she ever found her father. The prospect both upset and terrified her, and she began to fight back even more vigorously than before, starting to cry.

"Let me go!" she cried out, sobbing. "Please, let me go!"

No one gave her any response, save for the fact that the people holding onto her began to drag her in the direction opposite the one in which she'd previously been traveling. She continued to struggle as best as she could, but it was in vain. She also kept begging to be released, eventually slipping entirely into French because she was so mindless with fear.

Several minutes later, Erik was pacing before the fireplace in his suite, pondering upon what was soon to come.

A very short time from that point, that policewoman would be in his grasp—and, in all likelihood, he would show very little mercy. He wouldn't kill her… at least, he wouldn't if she was smart enough to agree to leave London with all haste. He felt reasonably certain that in order for her to agree to such a thing, he would have to be a little rough with her, but he wouldn't do anything that would have long-term effects. In fact, he probably wouldn't even bring any kind of physical harm to the girl… he would just shout at her and that would probably be enough. More often than not, his shouting was particularly effective in frightening women.

His thoughts were interrupted when his door, which he'd kept unlocked ever since Cameron's departure, was opened. He stopped his pacing and turned toward the door to see Cameron and the three security men walking in. All three of the security men had hold of the girl who had been pursuing him for the past week, and she had a burlap sack over her head per his instructions. She was obviously terrified, for she was crying and pleading in French.

"Lâchez-moi! S'il vous plait, je vais faire plus rien! Je ne veux pas mourir…"

Upon hearing this last statement from the young woman, a lump inexplicably rose in Erik's throat. Good God, his pursuer really was in the prime of her youth, judging by her voice! Why had she been so stupid to keep looking for him after being threatened not to… why hadn't she left? If she'd just listened, she wouldn't have to be afraid that she was about to die!

"Put her here," he instructed the security men after a few moments, motioning to the chair before the fireplace and then taking several steps backward so that he was standing in front of the chair.

The men did as they'd been told, bringing the girl over to the chair and sitting her in it with a roughness that Erik rather deemed unnecessary. He said nothing about it, however, and instead observed the girl in silence for a few moments as she continued crying and whimpering. She was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the firelight allowed him to see that her knuckles were white.

After he'd looked at the young woman for this brief time, he strode over to her as Cameron and the three security men stood nearby, watching the scene before them. Then he grabbed the top of the sack which covered her head, and as he pulled it off, the hood which had been on her head when Cameron and security men had taken her slid off as well, revealing the girl's tear-streaked face—a face whose right side was covered by a white mask like his!

Cameron and the three security men let out little gasps of astonishment, Erik stiffened just the slightest bit, and the young woman abruptly stopped crying and gasped herself as her eyes fell upon the masked man.

For several moments following, there was an awesome silence in the parlor, save for the sounds of the girl's panting breath and the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Erik and the young woman stared at each other, he appearing to be rather calm in spite of his bewilderment while she made no effort to conceal her amazement, for her grey-green eyes were wide.

"Everyone out," Erik finally spoke, directing this order to Cameron and the three security men. He didn't bother looking at them, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the girl sitting before him. "Now."

The four men didn't hesitate to follow this command, immediately exiting the parlor, and then the suite, in complete silence. All the while Erik and the young woman continued looking at each other, remaining in their respective positions even as the sound of the door's closing reached their ears.

Once the two had been alone for several moments, Marielle opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. After all, what could she say to a man who had obviously had no idea that he was her father, judging by the way he kept just _looking_ at her? No appropriate words came to mind.

Meanwhile, Erik's blood was beginning to run hotly through his veins. It seemed more than obvious to him that the girl sitting before him, the girl who had been searching for him this whole past week, was his daughter—for what other young woman in the entire world would have black hair, grey-green eyes, and a mask on the right side on her face?

At the same time, however, he was so strongly filled with disbelief that he felt he could easily deny that the girl belonged to him. In all his life, he had never really expected to be a father, even in those blissful twenty-four hours when he'd thought he would finally be with Christine for the rest of their lives. And it had been just over twenty-one years since that time had passed… so if this young woman was his daughter, why was he just learning of her existence now?

He finally spoke to her for the first time—"What is your name, mademoiselle?"

She blinked a little, apparently coming out of her awed stupor that had come from merely looking at him, then cleared her throat and straightened herself. Then she answered him, speaking softly, "Marielle, Monsieur Tourneau."

"Marielle," he murmured, keeping his eyes on her. "That's a lovely name."

"Thank you," she replied, her voice almost a whisper as she clasped her hands in front of her, resting them on her lap.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty. I'll be twenty-one in October."

"Where are you from?" He suddenly felt as if he was interrogating her, but he couldn't particularly help it. He _had_ to be certain that this girl belonged to him.

"Paris."

Trying to brace himself to receive a life-changing answer to his next question, he straightened himself and then placed his hands behind his back, taking on a somewhat formal stance. "Who is your mother?"

For a very brief moment, she was silent as she looked at him with an intensity that somewhat surprised him. Then she responded, "The Comtesse deChagny."

Upon hearing Christine's aristocratic title, he let out a long breath, nodded, and then looked down at the floor. He was suddenly overwhelmed; he could hardly believe all that he was hearing… that blissful evening that had occurred just over twenty-one years ago had created the young woman sitting before him… his daughter… his daughter with Christine!

He felt certain that she already knew of her parentage—after all, why else would she have come searching for him? Surely not because she was part of La Sûreté and was trying to take him back to France to be tried and imprisoned for all the crimes he'd committed during his term as the Opera Ghost. Even though he was sure she knew, however, he felt it important that she hear him confirm her belief, hear him accept the fact that he was a parent.

"Well," he finally said after a few moments, lifting his eyes back up to her. "It's evident that you're my daughter… as if your physical attributes weren't enough of a hint, really."

Marielle wasn't sure as to whether or not his statement about her "physical attributes" had been intended to be some kind of insult about her face, but she somewhat doubted it, seeing as he had the same face. Not that it really mattered, anyway—he had said "you're my daughter," and those were arguably the most important words she'd ever heard.

She suddenly felt inclined to leap from her seat, throw her arms around him, cry, and say "Father, Father" over and over… but judging by the general aura which she sensed was surrounding him, she felt rather certain that he wouldn't appreciate such an emotional display. Thus she didn't say anything at all; she merely nodded and kept her eyes on him.

Once they'd looked at each other in silence for a minute or two, he finally turned away from her, walking over to the table where he kept all his beverages. He opened a half-full decanter of brandy, then began to pour some into a small glass for himself.

After filling up the glass, he turned his attention to her and saw that she was looking at him as well, her eyes fixed on his face. "Would you like something to drink?"

Her eyes fell upon the glass he'd just filled, and then she shuddered so violently that he very nearly thought she was having an epileptic seizure.

"No, thank you," she replied after a few moments, tightly gripping the arms of her chair. "I don't… like alcohol."

"Oh." He felt mildly surprised that she'd given such a strong reaction, but said nothing about it and glanced back at the table and its contents. "Well, would you like a glass of water?"

"That sounds good, thank you."

Nodding, he picked up the glass pitcher of water on the table, then got a glass and filled it up with the water. Then he placed the pitcher back down, picking up his brandy and her water and then walking back over to her.

"Merci," she said softly, taking the water glass from him when he offered it to her. Then she took several small sips of the water before allowing the glass to rest in her hand while she rested both her arms on the chair's arms.

He took a sip of his brandy as he seated himself on the nearby sofa, then studied her for several moments before deciding that he would try finding out more about his newly-discovered daughter.

"Have you been living with the deChagny family all this time?"

"Yes," she replied, nodding. "I haven't been a member of the family, though… I've been a maid."

Erik couldn't say that he was surprised—because truthfully, he was surprised that Raoul deChagny had permitted his child with Christine to live in the Château deChagny at all. If the Comte had accepted her as his own, it certainly would have been nothing less than a modern miracle.

"Have they treated you well?"

Something about this question seemed to bother her, for she hesitated—and though he didn't know it, it was because she was thinking about how the Comte had never really been nice to her, how he'd frequently reminded her that she was a rapechild, and how he'd abused her in the worst fashion.

"As well as a maid can expect to be treated, I suppose," she finally said with a light shrug. She lowered her eyes to her glass, running the tip of her pointer finger along the rim of the glass. "I was always given first pick of the food once the deChagnys had been served… I was the first of the servants who was allowed to eat, and I was allowed to eat as much as I wanted. I never went hungry."

"Did you receive an education?"

"The Comtesse taught me as much as the Comte permitted her to, yes."

Her tone of voice was rather absent as she pondered upon the time she'd overheard her mother and stepfather arguing about giving her an education—something which, unsurprisingly, the then-Vicomtesse had wanted and the then-Vicomte had opposed.

"_What on earth does she need an education for?" the Vicomte demanded. "It's not as if she's likely to ever leave here. All she really needs to know is how to cook and clean, and she clearly knows those skills already."_

"_It would do her some good," his wife responded, using as persuasive a tone as she possessed. "She ought to have something else to take up time in her day besides working and just sitting about, waiting to be given more work."_

"_And what, exactly, would you teach her?"_

"_The basic things," Christine said with a shrug. "Mathematics, reading, penmanship. I was thinking on teaching her English as well; it would probably do her some good to know a foreign language. But at the very least, she ought to know how to do simple equations and be able to read and write."_

"_Hmph," the nobleman grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "But I don't understand _why_ you want to teach her anything. She doesn't need it, honestly!"_

_The Vicomtesse sighed. "Raoul, if I don't teach her, she's going to take the initiative and teach herself. And if she teaches herself, she's not going to limit what she learns… she'll learn more than what I intend to teach her and I think you'd like that even less than my teaching her as much—or as little, I suppose—as I intend to."_

_A silence passed between the married couple for several moments, and then Raoul finally let out a heavy sigh._

"_Fine," he grumbled. "Teach her, then. But if I hear her showing up either of the boys and demonstrating that she knows any more than what they've learned at school, you and I are going to have a very serious conversation—and you'll not be allowed to teach her anything more after that! So make sure she only learns the little bit you'll teach her."_

"I see," Erik said to Marielle, suddenly breaking into her train of thought. "And just how much was she permitted to teach you?"

"Arithmetic," she said, shrugging. "She also taught me to read and write up to the level of the cours élémentaire première année, as well as English."

"How old were you when she started teaching you?"

"Five."

"Mmm. And how long did it take you to reach the limit of what she taught you?"

"Six months."

He frowned a bit. "Well, I'm certainly going to have to teach you more than that. With the level of intellect you obviously have, I'm sure you've been thirsting for more knowledge."

Upon hearing this, her eyes widened and she clasped her hands together in an enthusiastic manner. "Oh, sir… you'll teach me?"

Erik fought back the urge to frown once again—and also the urge to show the disappointment that suddenly began to rise within him. He didn't like the fact that she'd called him _sir_… in spite of the fact that they hadn't known each other very long, he already wanted her to call him Father. The fact amazed him more than it would amaze her, if he would only dare to share it—but God help him, he couldn't fight against the paternal tenderness which was swiftly coming over him, even if he wanted to!

"Well, of course I will," he replied after a few moments. "But only if you want me to… and I'll only teach you as much as you want to learn."

"I want to learn everything," she breathed, clasping her hands together so tightly that her knuckles started to turn white. "Everything you can teach me!"

"That's quite a lot," he said, unable to stop himself from smiling at her contagious excitement and also silently hoping that she didn't find that statement to be arrogant. "But I'll do my best. I'm sure you'll absorb it all in no time."

A wide smile came to her face, and upon seeing her look so happy, he felt his own happiness beginning to grow. The fact that she was so jubilant within only fifteen minutes of being in his presence made him unable to help but wonder—even though she'd been a maid at the Château deChagny, had she been as happy there as she was then? Surely not, otherwise she wouldn't have come looking for him… unless she'd just decided that she was at a point in her life where she wanted to know her father.

"Why did you leave the deChagnys?" he therefore asked suddenly.

Her smile faded, and she lowered her eyes to the floor. Though he didn't know it, embarrassment and disappointment began to well within her, for she'd been hoping that some time would pass before she had to tell him of the crimes Raoul deChagny had committed against her—if ever. It seemed, however, that such a hope had been for naught.

She decided that she would at least attempt to give a cursory answer, and so she shrugged in a noncommittal fashion and said simply, "I wanted to find you."

"But why?" he persisted.

For several moments, she remained silent, rubbing her thumbs against the glass of water which was still in her hands. She felt her face grow warm as she felt even more upset at the prospect that she was, in fact, going to have to tell him right then, for she didn't want to risk having him send her away if she didn't let him know the truth.

"The Comte abused me," she finally said after a few moments, sounding rather tentative.

"Abused you?" he echoed, and when she lifted her eyes to him, she saw that the smile which had been on his face had rather quickly been replaced with a grave expression. "You mean that he hit you?"

"Well… yes," she replied, letting out a little sigh and wishing that hitting had been the extent of the Comte's abuse. "But that wasn't the worst thing he did. He forced himself on me, too."

His face hardened. "Once?"

"No. It was most every night from the time I was fifteen." She paused, a lump rising in her throat as she thought about the terrible event which had convinced her to leave the Château deChagny. "Shortly before I left, I found out that I was pregnant. I didn't tell anyone that it belonged to the Comte, though, because he'd told me that if I let anyone know what he did, he'd throw me out—so I told the Comtesse and the doctor that I'd snuck out of the Château one evening and… done _that_… with some stranger. But the Comte wanted to ensure he didn't get found out by having the baby look like him, and so a week afterwards, he forced a bottle of alcohol down my throat so the baby would die. When I regained consciousness after that, I knew I couldn't stay any longer—my life would just get worse if I did. So I decided I'd try finding you, and I went to your old home under the Opera and then decided to come here to London and see if you were here."

As this explanation had gone on, she had sounded more and more upset, and by the time she was through telling her story, tears were rolling down her face, the ones rolling down her right cheek getting trapped underneath her mask.

For several moments following, he merely stared at her in astonishment, then abruptly rose to his feet and turned toward the fireplace, an incredible outrage flooding his veins. Though Erik hadn't really liked Raoul for having ultimately won Christine's affections, he'd always thought the younger man was rather noble. That belief had just been proven wrong, however, due to the fact that the bastard Comte had been taking advantage of his child—_his child!_—for years.

"I have done a great many terrible things over the years," he then said, his tone fierce, "but I have never forced myself on a woman."

In the midst of wiping away the tears on her face, she glanced up at him with surprise. "Yes, you have."

Upon hearing this, he turned around and faced her with a speed that caused her to jolt in her seat a bit.

"Excuse me?" he demanded. "What did you say?"

She arched her visible eyebrow, not understanding why he was taken aback by this statement. Maybe he had forgotten the way in which he'd gotten the Comtesse pregnant with her?

"You—you raped Madame la Comtesse," she replied, using a tone of voice which indicated that she was trying to broach this subject as delicately as possible, lest he actually had forgotten that he'd taken advantage of her mother. "That's how she had me."

"_What?_" he shouted almost immediately after she'd finished her statement, and his sudden increase in volume made her jolt a little more than she had previously. Anger was clearly burning in his eyes. "Where the hell did you hear a thing like that?"

Her eyes widened and her heart began to pound, and she started to become afraid of just how angry he might get. "It's what I've heard all my life. The Comte told me that's what the Comtesse told him when she found out she was pregnant… and she's never said anything to deny it. And that… that was his justification for taking advantage of me; he said he was getting revenge on you for raping Madame la Comtesse. I—I remember what he said the first time he did it—_as he raped my wife… so I will rape his daughter_."

Once she'd made this confession, Erik was very nearly blinded by rage. Instead of owning up to the fact that she'd been unfaithful to her husband, Christine had merely said that he'd forced himself on her! She'd portrayed him as the monster she'd apparently always thought him to be… it was no wonder that no one had attempted to contact him and tell him about Marielle, for apparently, it was widely believed that she was a rapechild!

As quick as lightning, he practically flew over to his daughter, roughly grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into a standing position, and she cried out in surprise and fear upon being handled so forcefully.

"That's a lie!" he shouted directly in her face, and she cringed and her face reddened in a way that indicated she was getting upset. "I never, _ever_ did anything of that sort to your mother! She came to _me_, and I'll have you know that she was more than willing to give herself to me!"

She opened her mouth to say something as tears began to fill her eyes, but she never got to say whatever had been in her head, for he continued on.

"Why?" he snarled viciously, shaking her roughly. "Why did she tell him that?"

"I don't know!" she cried out, letting out a sob of great fear. "I don't know; I've never heard anything different from what the Comte's told me all this time… I didn't know it wasn't true!"

"Do you believe me?" he demanded angrily, tightening his grip on her shoulders in such a way that she was certain there would be bruises there in the morning. "Do you believe that what you've heard isn't true, or do you still think I'm the villain you've always known me to be?"

"Yes, yes, I believe you!" she replied, tears rolling down her face once again as she started to cry as she had earlier. "I'm sorry; I didn't know! Please, let go of me… you're hurting me!"

And then she didn't say anything else, instead letting out great and awful sobs that wracked her entire body. Upon seeing her so upset, he suddenly understood that he really was frightening her, if the way her face was turned away from him was any indication, and that his iron grip on her shoulders certainly had to be painful to her.

Without any warning, he released his hold on her, and she dropped to the floor like a ragdoll, sitting on her knees and pressing her forehead against the floor, looking like someone who was praying fervently. Her shoulders shook from the intensity of her sobs as she covered her face with her hands.

For several moments, he watched her in silence—and as he did, he felt terrible. He'd discovered only half an hour ago that he was a father, and he'd already succeeded in scaring his newly-found child with his foul temper. And in fact, he didn't even know if she actually believed that he hadn't forced himself on Christine; for all he knew, she'd merely said that he was right in order to prevent him for getting angrier. For all he knew, she would agree with him that the world was flat if he said so—anything to ensure that he wouldn't direct any more of his fury toward her.

"I'm sorry," he then said with a rather long sigh, taking a few steps forward until he was standing right in front of her. "I didn't mean to shout at you like that—not really. I'm the most hot-tempered person I know, and when my anger gets to a certain point, I can't really control it any longer. I just can't _believe_ that your mother would say something like that…"

His voice trailed off, at which point she removed her hands from her face and looked up at him, still letting out little sniffles. He could see that her face was a rather deep shade of red and the tracks of the tears she'd shed were clearly visible on her unmasked, undeformed cheek.

"But that's no excuse for getting angry with you," he continued. "It's not your fault that she lied… you didn't even know she was lying. And how could you know?"

She didn't give him a response, instead looking at him silently as she finally stopped her crying. To his relief, she didn't look as upset as she had a moment previously—in fact, she didn't look upset at all. Instead, she looked rather calm.

"I don't know everything you've been told about me, but I'm sure none of it's been complimentary. And it's obvious that you haven't always been told the truth where I'm concerned," he told her then, his voice suddenly rather soft. He extended a hand down to her. "But if you'll let me, I'll show you that I'm not quite as terrible as the deChagnys have portrayed me to be."

For several moments following, she remained still and quiet while her gaze shifted from his hand to his face several times. Then, letting out a soft sigh, she reached out and grasped her hand in his, and with his help, she stood up straight.

Once she'd risen, they looked at each other in silence, still holding hands as he gently ran his thumb across her knuckles. And in that moment, she suddenly felt as if every bit of pain she'd experienced thanks to the Comte—every slap she'd ever received, every time he'd forced himself upon her, every instance in which she'd cried—had been completely and utterly worth it. How could her suffering not be worthwhile when it had eventually led her to her father?

"Where have you been staying?" he asked her, interrupting her moment of sudden contentment. He made no effort to release her hand, but she didn't mind.

"Nowhere, really—not for the past couple of days, anyway," she replied with a shrug. "I was at Ashley's Hotel for the first five days that I was here, but then I checked out and started just staying in an alley."

"An alley!" he echoed, his astonishment apparently so strong that he let go of her hand. "Why on Earth have you been staying in an alley?"

"I was about to run out of money," she explained. "In fact, once I'd been here for five days, I was about to leave and return to Paris so I could get more money… but then one of the men who brought me here tonight confronted me, telling me I should stop looking for you and just leave. That made it obvious to me that you were actually here, and I didn't want to risk missing you in case you left between the time I left for Paris and the time I came back here. So in order to preserve my money so I would be able to buy food for a few days more, I checked out of the hotel."

For a moment, he stared at her in surprise, and then he let out a sigh and reached out toward her face. The sight of his hand coming to her face made her think about how the Comte had hit her, however, and so she flinched. Seeing her do so made him stop midway.

"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't even think about how you wouldn't like a man putting his hand near your face." He bit in his lip in the exact same way that she did. "It'll sound strange, but I was just going to… touch your hair."

This did indeed sound strange to her, something which she indicated by the slight frown she gave. Then, however, she shrugged and leaned her head forward slightly, silently encouraging him to continue with what he'd been doing.

He reached out the rest of the way and then began slowly running his fingers through her hair, relishing in how silky and smooth the midnight-black waves were. She equated his fingers' going through her hair to having her hair brushed, and thus it was something she enjoyed, which she indicated by letting out a little sigh of ecstasy.

"You're very brave," he said softly to her after several moments. "So very, very brave."

She arched her visible eyebrow at him as what was visible of her face turned slightly pink out of embarrassment from being complimented. "Why would you think that?"

"Because it's true, of course," he replied, raising his eyebrow at her in turn. "You endured five years of abuse under deChagny—and that's just the physical aspect; I'm sure I'd be correct in assuming that he verbally and emotionally abused you long before he ever thought about laying a hand on you."

Instead of giving him verbal confirmation that his suspicion was correct, she shrugged, but that was enough for him.

"Would I also be right in thinking that you were rarely allowed out of the Château—if ever?"

"I was never allowed to leave, no. The Comte didn't want anyone in the outside world knowing that I existed."

"Hmm," he murmured with a nod. "Well, then you're also brave because you left Paris entirely on your own, with no real knowledge of the outside world, and made your way here. Then you were absolutely persistent in looking for me—you even ignored the threat of death in order to stay here and keep searching. And by checking yourself out of Ashley's and staying in an alleyway in order to stay here for a longer time without running out of funds, you risked your life once again. Truth be told, I find it to be a miracle that you haven't been mugged or otherwise harmed in the two days since you began doing that."

A small smile came to her features, and then she gave a rather nonchalant shrug. "I'm just lucky, I suppose."

He returned her smile and shrug, then removed his hand from her hair. "Well, I'm certainly not going to allow you to continue living in an alleyway. You'll stay here at Claridge's with me."

"Claridge's?" she breathed with astonishment, looking around the suite with sudden awe. "I've passed by here several times… I can't stay here! It's so expensive."

"Expensive or not, you're my daughter and you're going to stay with me for as long as you want to," he informed her with a rather firm tone. "And if ever you feel like leaving, I'll give you as much money as you need so you can travel without worrying about the cost—as long as you don't return to Paris and to the deChagnys."

"I have no intention of doing that."

"Good," he said, nodding. Then he briefly glanced toward the door before turning his attention back to her. "And now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to call in my assistant so he can go to the front desk and get your room all set up for you."

She nodded, and then he turned and exited the parlor before opening the door and departing from the suite, leaving her alone.

As it happened, however, Marielle didn't remain by herself for very long. Within two minutes, Erik had returned, a man who appeared to be somewhere around Marielle's age following behind him. He was a rather handsome man, in her opinion, and he had blond hair and clear blue eyes.

"Marielle, this is my assistant, Cameron MacAlister," Erik said to the masked young woman, motioning to the man who was with him. Then he turned his attention to the man, motioning to Marielle. "Cameron, this is my daughter, Marielle."

Cameron's face immediately broke into a charming smile that made Marielle's knees get weaker. Her heart began pounding wildly as he then took her hand in his and placed a very soft kiss to it.

"Enchanté, Mademoiselle Tourneau," he said politely, his voice soft.

"Bonjour, Monsieur MacAlister," she responded, feeling her face start to flush. Good God, he was so handsome, so charismatic! She very nearly found his mere presence to be overwhelming.

"You may know this already, but I'm the one who threatened you the other night," he said to her suddenly, looking rather embarrassed as he clasped his hands behind his back and took a rather formal stance. "I'm sorry I did, but… well, I didn't know who you were and I was only doing my job. That's not a very good excuse, but it's the only excuse I've got."

"Oh… that's all right," she replied, feeling rather surprised—she hadn't even thought about the fact that she recognized his voice from when she'd been taken and when she'd been threatened two days previously. "There was no harm done."

He let out a little sigh, his shoulders relaxing as that marvelous smile returned to his face. "Well, I'm glad to hear that."

"Marielle will be staying with us from this point forward—until she decides to leave, that is," Erik then informed Cameron, drawing the young man's attention away from Marielle. He then walked over to a nearby safe, unlocking and opening it to reveal the money that he currently had with him. He picked up a banded-together wad of pound notes, then closed the safe back up before returning to his daughter and employee.

"So I need you to go to the front desk and get a room for her to stay in for an indefinite period—and tell whoever's working there at the moment that all expenses for her room will go onto my bill," he continued, handing the money to Cameron. "Of course, it's preferable that her room be on this floor… as close to my room as you can get."

"Of course, sir," Cameron replied with a nod. "I'll get that done right away."

"Good. In the meantime, Marielle and I are going to go where she's been staying the past few nights and collect her things. We'll be back in a short while, and you can tell us then where she'll be staying."

Marielle was rather surprised to be hearing that she and her father were going somewhere, as he hadn't said anything about it until that point, but she didn't have any objection to it.

"All right, sir," Cameron agreed, nodding once more. Then he turned his attention back to Marielle, inclining his head toward her slightly with a smile on his face. "I'll see you again in a while, then, Mademoiselle Tourneau."

All of a sudden, the masked young woman was dumbfounded that he was still speaking to her—but then she realized that he was probably only doing so because he worked for her father and thus had to be respectful and attentive toward her, lest behaving in any other way make him lose his job. In spite of this understanding, however, she merely smiled back at him and gave him a slight curtsy.

When she'd curtsied to him, he then gave a brief nod to Erik, then turned and exited the suite, the door making a somewhat loud _click_ as it closed behind him in the midst of his departure.

"Now," Erik then prompted, turning toward his daughter. "Let's off to that alley so we can get all your things, shall we?"

She silently nodded her consent, pulling her hood back over her head as he began moving about the room, collecting a long black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat and putting them on. To her surprise, she found that the brim of his hat was wide enough that it very nearly covered the entirety of his mask—anyone who was merely passing by him on the street wouldn't notice that he looked any different from other people. And the hat wasn't a blatantly obvious cover; she was certain that most people would think that he was wearing the hat just for fashion's sake, for it wasn't so large that it couldn't have any other purpose except to cover something up.

He briefly glanced at her, saw that she was ready to depart, and then headed toward the door. She followed him, giving him a short nod of thanks as he opened the door and motioned for her to exit the suite. He stepped out after her, closing and locking the door before turning toward her and motioning her forward, signifying that she ought to lead the way to the alley where she'd spent the past two nights.

For the next five minutes or so, they walked side-by-side out of the hotel and toward the alley where she'd been sleeping, neither one of them speaking. Once those five minutes had passed, however, he made an inquiry of her.

"I don't suppose you received any kind of salary while you lived with the deChagnys, so how did you find the means to get here?"

Her face grew hot as she glanced at him. "I found the key to that chest which had all your money in your home underneath the Opera. I took some of it. I—I wasn't trying to steal; I just needed some way to get here. But I'll pay you back once I've gained some useful employment and have earned all the money that I took from you."

"How much did you take?" he asked, cocking his visible eyebrow at her.

Upon hearing this question, she felt even more embarrassed at the fact that she'd taken money from him, and she turned her face away from him and confessed, "Three thousand francs."

If not for the fact that she appeared to be so unhappy with herself for having taken the amount that she had, he would have laughed, for three thousand francs was inconsequential to him. Of course, he was glad that she'd admitted to taking it, for if he'd returned to his underground home in Paris and found that amount missing, he would have thought he'd been robbed. But since it was she who had taken the money, it didn't bother him that he was three thousand francs poorer—after all, he was a rather wealthy man, and she was his daughter and therefore had as much right to his money as he did.

"Well, that's all right," he assured her after a few moments. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry about paying me back; I'll just take it out of your inheritance."

She snapped her head up, turning to him and looking at him with astonishment. "Inheritance?"

"Of course," he replied in an it's-so-obvious tone, giving a light shrug. "Since you're my daughter, you'll get whatever amount of my money that I choose to give you when I die. It's just that now that amount will be three thousand francs less than what I'll initially consider giving you, seeing as how you already took that amount for yourself."

"I see," she murmured, still looking completely taken aback. Then she shrugged in turn. "Well, since I never expected to receive an inheritance, anyway, it won't make any difference to me if it's three thousand francs less than what you'd originally intend to give me. Whatever amount you give me will be much more than I'll have ever thought I would have. And you know, once I've started working, you won't have to pay for any more of my expenses—and whatever amount you spend on me before I get a job will be paid back to you."

He arched his visible eyebrow at her. "Marielle… that was a joke. That is, as far as taking money from you is concerned. You _will_ receive an inheritance when I die, but it won't be anything less than what I fully intend to give you just because you already took some money from me. You probably realize this from how much I had in that chest at my home underneath the Opera and from the fact that I own several buildings in this city alone, but I have a considerable amount of money. Therefore, I certainly won't miss the three thousand francs you took and it's absolutely unnecessary for you to pay me back—or to even seek employment, unless you really want to have a job."

For several moments following, she continued looking at him with complete surprise. Then, however, she seemed to accept his explanation and shrugged, though she looked somewhat uneasy.

"Well, I think it would be good for me to have a job," she said. "It would give me a useful way to occupy my time and it would allow me to be financially independent—"

"You can be financially independent without having a job. Tomorrow you and I will go to the bank and get you access to all my accounts so that you can withdraw funds at your leisure—so you can have any amount of money you'd like at any point in time without even asking me for it."

She let out a little sigh. "I don't know how comfortable I feel with just living off your money. It doesn't feel right to me."

"As long as I'm permitting it, which I am, it's perfectly fine," he informed her with a rather firm tone. Then he gave her a smile. "What's mine is yours now."

"Hmm," she murmured. "Well, I'll think on whether or not I want to get a job. But if I decide that I want to work, I'm not going to start seeking employment for several days. I… I'd like to spend some time just getting to know you for the next little while."

Upon hearing this, he felt his heart warming as his smile widened a bit. "I'd like that, too."

After smiling back at him, she turned her attention toward the path ahead of them and saw that they had arrived at the alley where she'd spent the past several nights. "We're here."

Then, without waiting for him to say or do anything more, she stepped into the alleyway, locating her carpetbag while he stood just outside the alley and watched. After checking that she still had all her possessions in the bag, she closed it back up and picked it up, walking back over to him. They nodded to each other to silently signify that they were ready to go back to Claridge's, then headed back toward the direction from which they'd come without speaking to each other for the rest of the journey.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle," Cameron greeted the two when they arrived in the lobby of Claridge's, nodding and smiling to both of them. He produced a key, which he extended to Marielle, who took it. "I was able to get the room right next door to your suite, Monsieur Tourneau—room 286. So the mademoiselle will be staying there."

"Thank you, Cameron," Erik said to the younger man, giving him a nod, and Marielle gave him a small smile in order to show her own gratitude. "Did you tell whoever was working at the front desk at the moment that the expenses for her room will go onto my bill?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"Very good." Erik paused for a moment, then gave a brief glance toward Marielle before looking back at Cameron. "Well, I think the two of us are about to retire for the evening… it's been a very long night. So we'll see you in the morning."

"All right, Monsieur." Cameron inclined his head to his employer, then turned his attention to the masked young woman. He smiled and bowed, taking her hand and then pressing a kiss to it as he had when he'd first been introduced to her.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Tourneau. I'll see you in the morning."

In the back of her mind, Marielle still felt certain that Cameron was only being as polite as he was because she was his employer's daughter, but she couldn't help but feel thrilled by the fact that a handsome man such as he was giving her the time of day.

"Bonne nuit, Monsieur MacAlister," she finally said softly after a few moments, shyly smiling back at him and then curtsying.

Erik hid the smile which was threatening to surface. It was plain to him that his daughter was rather fascinated by the Englishman, but he didn't want to do anything which might give away his realization, lest she know what he was on about and become embarrassed.

Cameron's smile widened just a bit upon hearing Marielle's parting words, and then he gave a nod to his employer before turning and making his way toward the nearby staircase, apparently heading up to his own room to retire for the night.

For several moments following, Erik and Marielle watched him leave. Then Erik turned his gaze toward Marielle, however, and found that she was still looking in the direction the young man had just been traveling despite the fact that he'd now disappeared from sight. He noted, with some amusement, that she looked rather entranced.

"Would you like to see your room now?" he asked her.

"Hmm?" she murmured somewhat absently, then inhaled deeply through her nose as if he'd just woken her from some deep sleep. She then blinked several times before turning to him, her expression now one of focus. "What?"

He bit back a smile once again. "I asked if you wanted to see your room now."

"Oh, yes," she replied with a nod, letting out a somewhat long sigh before yawning. "That sounds good. I'm feeling rather tired, after all, and I'd like to go to bed soon."

"Then let's go," he said, motioning toward the staircase which Cameron had just ascended several moments before. "To the second floor."

She nodded once more, then moved toward the staircase, beginning to climb it once she reached the bottom stair. He followed after her.

Once they'd reached the second floor and come to the room which was to the immediate left of Erik's suite, she took hold of the key that Cameron had given her and stuck it in the door's keyhole, turning the key and then opening the door. And as she and her father stepped inside the room, she let out a gasp of amazement.

This room was, in fact, a suite—one which wasn't quite as grand as Erik's, but still far grander than any place Marielle had ever resided. From what she could see just by standing at the front door, she saw that the suite had a sizable parlor complete with a fireplace, a sofa, several chairs, and a desk.

After absorbing the sight of the parlor, she practically flew into the bedroom while he remained standing at the door. And when she entered the bedroom, she discovered that it contained a king-sized bed, an armoire, a nightstand, a small table, and a big closet. There was a large marble bathroom attached to the bedroom, and it had a rather deep bathtub alongside having a sink and a toilet.

Upon realizing that this entire space belonged to her and her alone, she let out a sudden giggle of enthusiasm and quickly made her way back into the parlor, where Erik was now standing.

"Well?" he inquired, arching his visible eyebrow at her and smiling upon seeing her so excited. "Is it to your liking?"

"Oh, it's wonderful!" she breathed, clasping her hands together and then sweeping her gaze over as much of the suite as she could see from where she stood. "It's so lovely… I think it's marvelous! And everything is so _big!_"

The smile on his face remained. "You've come a long way from the simple maids' bedroom you had at the Château deChagny."

She nodded fervently, seating herself on the sofa and then letting out a long sigh in an attempt to slow the excited racing of her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she looked up at him with a somewhat serious expression on her face as she stood back up and removed her cloak.

"If I took off my shoes and stockings, would it offend you?"

He raised his eyebrow once more as he took her cloak from her and hung it on the nearby coat rack, which earned him a nod of thanks from her. "No, of course not. This is your room, after all; you can do as you like. If you want your shoes and stockings to come off, take them off."

Without waiting for any more of an answer, if he would have even give one, she seated herself on the sofa once more. Then she reached down and unlaced her shoes, pulling them off her feet with some difficulty because they were so small. And as he watched her feet begin to stretch out to their natural length and she let out a sigh, a somewhat stunned expression came to his face.

"Do you not have shoes that fit you?"

"No," she confessed, wincing a bit at the painful sensation of having her feet finally be released from the confines of her shoes. "This pair of shoes is the only one I have. And since they're sturdy, Monsieur le Comte said he wouldn't get me any until these wore out… so I've been wearing them for six years, even though they haven't fit for quite some time."

"Hmph," he murmured, his face momentarily darkening as he watched her continue to flex her toes until she could comfortably have her feet at their natural length. "Well, tomorrow we shall have to go out and buy you a new pair of shoes—perhaps several, if you find more than one pair that you like."

"Thank you," she replied, not looking at him as she then proceeded to take off her stockings. Then she leaned back on the sofa for several moments, letting out a sigh and feeling her body relax.

For several moments, he looked down at her before turning his attention to her carpetbag, which was sitting nearby on the floor. Then, curious to know just how much she'd brought with her from Paris, he strode over to the bag and opened it up, inspecting its contents and finding her book, the money she still had, her undergarments, her stockings, her nightgown, and her other dress.

"Where are the rest of your clothes?" he demanded upon not finding any other dresses. "Surely you had more than this in Paris."

"No, I didn't," she replied with a shake of her head. "I just had two dresses; I would wear one for two days, then let it air out while I wore the next one for the two days following that. And once a week, I would wash whatever dress I wasn't wearing that particular day."

He pulled out her other dress, regarding it with distaste for a moment or two. Then he let out a short, huffy sigh and tossed it onto the floor.

"I won't stand for you to have only two dresses," he informed her in a frustrated tone, looking up at her, his eyes meeting hers. "Especially not these pathetic, flimsy servants' clothes. You're not a maid anymore; you're my daughter and you're going to dress like a woman who's never worked a day in her life if I have anything to say about it—which I will."

She cocked her visible eyebrow at him in surprise, but she didn't say anything to protest. She instead replied, "All right, sir. Then I suppose we'll have to buy me some new clothes tomorrow as well."

"Yes," he agreed. Then he paused, looking at his pocketwatch and regarding it for several moments before turning his attention back to her.

"Maybe we should go to bed now," he said. "It isn't too terribly late; it's only ten o'clock… but I myself am feeling rather tired. I suppose it's thanks to the monumental occasion of your sudden appearance."

"Well, it's not just you," she informed him, stretching and letting out a rather loud yawn. Then she rather slowly rose to her feet. "I'm tired, too. And it's probably all the excitement combined with the fact that I haven't been getting a lot of sleep these past few nights… as I'm sure you can imagine, it's not very comfortable to sleep in an alley."

He nodded. "Then we'll off to bed. Sleep as long as you'd like; we're not any kind of schedule. Alongside shopping, we'll do whatever else you want to do at your leisure. How does that sound?"

"Good," she replied, giving him a contented, suddenly-tired smile. "Should we have breakfast together?"

"I'd like that."

She nodded, then gave him a curtsy. "Well, until I see you, I hope you have a good sleep."

"You as well," he said, inclining his head toward her slightly. "And you know, you don't have to curtsy to me. I'm not your employer or anything to that effect… in fact, I don't even make my employees bow or curtsy to me, so you certainly don't have to. Remember, you're not a maid any longer."

"Right," she agreed, inclining her head a bit as he'd just done. "It's just habit, I suppose. But anyway… good night, sir."

"Good night, Marielle," he replied, giving her a smile before turning and making to exit the suite. Before he was able to make it out the door, however, she stopped him.

"Monsieur Tourneau?"

Upon hearing her address him in that fashion, he suddenly felt inclined to tell her to call him Father, but he wasn't sure that she was ready to be that familiar with him. He therefore merely turned back to her, raising his visible eyebrow at her.

"Yes?"

For several moments, she stood there, looking at him with as she fidgeted with her hands. She had an intense desire to go over to him and embrace him, but she still felt certain that he wasn't really the type to give or receive physical affection, so she stayed put and spoke the words she'd intended to say regardless of whether or not she chose to hug him.

"Thank you for… well, everything you've done in the short time since I was brought to you. Accepting me, allowing me to stay with you… it all means a lot to me."

A soft smile came to his masked features. "I'm only treating you as I should—as a father should treat his daughter."

She didn't say anything in response; she merely smiled back at him, and he saw that what was visible of her face lit up from his words. Then, however, his smile faded and his expression became solemn.

"I'm sorry I didn't know before," he continued, his voice suddenly rather soft and filled with remorse. "Because your mother lied to her husband about how you came to be, and judging by the fact that none of my contacts in Paris ever attempted to get in touch with me, I can safely conclude that no one wanted me to be in your life."

Upon hearing him say that, tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she whispered, "I wanted you there. It's true that most of the time I thought you were nothing but a villain, but… even through all that, you were still my father. And there were many times when I wanted my father."

"And you would have had me," he informed her, his voice thick with sudden emotion as tears came to his eyes as well, a lump rising in his throat. "If I'd known… if I'd had any _inkling_… I swear I would have been there."

In that moment, she knew that the words "you're my daughter" were now no longer the most important she'd ever heard. Those had now been replaced with the last statement he'd just made, and this realization caused a sob to escape from the back of her throat as tears began to roll down her face.

"I would have fought for you," he told her, his voice almost sounding desperate, pleading. All the while he was fighting his emotions, willing himself to not cry in the face of her tears before him. "I would have gone to Hell and back if it meant having you for myself… I would have willingly raised you on my own; I would have given you the life you should have had…"

Once he'd said these things, she couldn't hold back any longer. And so, without any hesitation and without worrying whether or not he'd be bothered by it, she rushed over to him and threw her arms around him, crying harder than she'd ever cried before as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

When she first embraced him, he was entirely taken aback, for he had thought it would be some time before she would give him any kind of physical affection, if ever, especially considering what Raoul had put her through. But emotions were running high, and he was probably telling her things she'd probably never thought she would ever hear.

It wasn't as if he minded the fact that she was so emotional and that she wanted to hold him, however—because truth be told, he was probably feeling just as affected as she was. The news that he was a father had rather overwhelmed him, and the knowledge that his daughter had suffered so much before she'd found him had made him want to hold her, too. He just hadn't taken the initiative because he hadn't wanted to make her nervous.

Since she'd invited this contact between them, however, he couldn't deny either of them any longer. A tidal wave of feeling washed over him, and he wrapped his arms around her as tears began to escape his eyes, sliding down his unmasked, undeformed cheek and landing so close to her face that his tears began to mingle with hers.

"If I ever cross paths with that blasted deChagny again," he said in a harsh, fervent tone, "I'll kill him. I swear to God I'll kill him for everything he's done to you…"

His voice trailed off then, and then neither of them said anything more for a long, long time. They simply continued holding onto each other, letting their tears fall until their eyes were completely dry. And in the time during which they embraced, they knew that in each other, they'd suddenly found the family they'd always wanted.

**~ o ~**

**Author's Note: A couple of FYIs. First off, what Marielle said when she was brought into Erik's suite, translated into English, is "Let me go! Please, I'll do anything! I don't want to die…" Second,**** cours élémentaire**** première**** année****, the level of reading and writing that Christine taught Marielle up to, is the French equivalent of first grade.**


	9. Chapter 8: All Things New

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to liebedero and Yuy Veritas for adding this story to their favorites. Additional thanks goes to IAmTheMaskYouWear and The Duelist's Heiress for reviewing.**

**I'd also like to apologize for updating a day late than promised (something which some of you may not have noticed, but it's true). Here's what happened (although you probably don't really care about having an explanation; I feel inclined to give one anyway, though). For every installment before this one, I did a supremely good job of staying ahead; I was several chapters ahead of every update. But then I got into kind of a writing stupor and didn't really know how to get out of it in spite of the fact that I knew this chapter was coming up and I hadn't finished it, so truthfully, I only finished it today, a day late. And since I know what I'm going to be doing for the next few chapters and don't have any kind of stupor, this likely won't happen again for a while (I'd like to say "at all," but sometimes the muse fails to call to me). But this update is here now, and if I say so myself, it's pretty good. Yay me!**

**Anyway, without any further ado…**

**~ o ~**

The next morning, Marielle woke up to discover that she was the most comfortable she'd ever been in her twenty years of life. She'd slept soundly all night long, not being interrupted by the sounds of the London street which was beside the alley where she'd resided the past several nights. Nor had she been haunted by any sort of nightmares of the Comte coming to London and finding her. In fact, she'd had the most magnificent dream!

In her dream, she'd gone to the tavern her father had designed as she had for the past several nights. Upon leaving, she'd been taken by a group of men and dragged to some location which had then been unknown to her. And once she'd been taken to where the men had been instructed to take her, she'd found herself face-to-face with her father!

After that point, the two had been left alone in his hotel suite at Claridge's, and she'd told him a considerable amount about the life she'd had at the Château deChagny—she'd informed him of her position working for the deChagny family, the education the Comtesse had given her, and the abuse that the Comte had put her through. Upon hearing all the pain she'd undergone, her father had insisted that she stay with him at Claridge's, and eventually, they'd embraced while they both cried, each of them feeling relieved to have found the family they'd craved all their life.

Soon after that, Marielle's dream had shown her going to sleep in her own suite at Claridge's… and that was all she could remember; if she'd dreamed any more after that point, she wasn't aware of it.

For several moments more, the deformed young woman pondered upon that magnificent dream, her heart aching even as she thought about how happy she'd been in the dream. If only it hadn't been a dream; if only she had actually succeeded in finding her father!

Letting out a soft sigh, she yawned and stretched luxuriously, relishing in the softness of the bed in which she rested, the delicious feeling of silk sheets rubbing against her legs.

Wait a moment. A soft bed? Silk sheets? She'd never had any of those things before, especially not in a filthy alleyway somewhere in London!

Marielle finally opened her eyes and sat up in a rather abrupt fashion, looking all around her in astonishment. For she wasn't in an alley; instead, she was in the grandest bedroom she'd ever laid eyes on—a bedroom even grander than that which the Comte and Comtesse occupied in the Château deChagny!

Her heart pounding, she jumped out of bed, running out of the bedroom and into a lovely parlor which was outside the bedroom. And that was when her shocked brain finally realized—that dream she'd deemed to be so wonderful hadn't been a dream at all; it had been reality! She had actually met her father, he had actually accepted her, and she was actually residing in her own suite at Claridge's! The whole situation had just been so surreal that, upon waking, she'd somehow managed to convince herself that none of it had really happened.

A feeling of incredible delight and giddiness ran through her veins, and in her enthusiasm, she hopped up and down a couple of times, clapping her hands together and giggling excitedly.

For the first time ever, everything in Marielle Tourneau's relatively-short-but-largely-miserable life was perfect.

Once she'd spent several moments just reveling in the fact that things were finally going completely well for her, she happened to glance up at the clock on the nearby wall and saw that it was already nine-thirty in the morning and that she'd slept ten and a half hours, for she'd been in bed by eleven o'clock the night before. She gasped in mild astonishment, for she'd never slept that late before! Every morning since she'd left the Château deChagny, she'd always woken up by seven o'clock at the latest, and when she'd still lived in Paris, she'd always woken up by five-thirty in order to begin her daily chores.

Her surprise expression, however, then melted into a full smile. She supposed she shouldn't be entirely surprised that she had slept so intensely and for so long. After all, the bed in which she'd slept had been so marvelously comfortable—she fully believed that if she really wanted to, she would be able to go back to bed right then and sleep the rest of the day away, the bed was that soft!

She simply couldn't go back to bed, however; she had a full day ahead of her. Erik had told her the night before that they would have breakfast together before going out so that they might do some shopping for her. And since she was sure that her father wasn't much of a late sleeper, he had probably already been awake and waiting for several hours.

This thought in her head, she turned back toward her bedroom and went back into it, then entered the adjoining bathroom. The last time she'd bathed had been two nights before, as the night before, she'd been so tired from the excitement that she hadn't washed. And strictly speaking, she hadn't had much of a thorough cleaning since she'd left Ashley's Hotel, as she hadn't had a bathroom specifically for her to use. Therefore, it was surely necessary for her to have a bath—she only wished that she had more time so that she could relish having such a marvelous bathroom for her exclusive use!

After rather quickly having a bath and dressing herself in clean clothes, she pulled her hair back into a loose bun, put her mask on, and then collected her cloak, for she had a feeling that she wouldn't be returning to her suite before she and Erik ventured out of Claridge's. Then, ensuring that she had her room key with her, she exited the suite and then went right next door to her father's suite.

When the door was opened in response to her knock, Marielle found that Cameron had already woken up and made his way into his employer's suite, for it was he who answered the door.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Tourneau," he greeted her with the same charming smile he'd given her the night before, inclining his head toward her slightly. "Good morning. Please come in."

"Thank you, Monsieur MacAlister," she replied, her voice soft and her answering smile shy as she stepped inside the suite. Upon briefly glancing around, she saw that Erik wasn't in sight, but a wheeled cart filled to the brim with all manner of breakfast foods was in the center of the parlor. The smell of some of the food drifted to her nose, and her mouth watered slightly.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked of her as he closed the door, stepping beside her as she turned her attention to him. "And are you comfortable in your room?"

"Yes, I slept very well… and the room is wonderful. Thank you."

His smile widened a bit, and the young woman felt her knees grow weak as they had when he'd first smiled at her the night before. "I'm glad. Now, if you need anything at all at any point in time, please let me know. I'm at your service."

Marielle felt her face grow hot; she was still so unused to interacting with a handsome young man such as him… and of course, she wasn't accustomed to being served; she had spent all her life being the servant.

"Thank you," she finally managed to respond after several moments. She smiled in a hesitant, somewhat shy manner. "I appreciate it."

Once more he smiled back at her, and then a sound coming from further inside the suite caused both of them to turn their heads. As it turned out, Erik had appeared and was now standing beside the cart of food.

Upon seeing the masked man, Marielle curtsied as Cameron bowed slightly.

"Good morning, Monsieur Tourneau," Marielle addressed her father, unable to help but smile upon being in her father's presence once more. "I'm sorry for being so late; I had no idea that I slept for so long."

"That's all right," Erik replied, returning her smile. "I'm sure you were tired. And those beds are quite comfortable."

"Yes," she agreed, letting out a little sigh of ecstasy as she recalled just how marvelous it had felt to be in her bed.

For a few moments more, Erik looked at his daughter with a smile, and then he shifted his gaze to Cameron. His expression then became a bit more solemn, though certainly not unkind, as he addressed the young man.

"If you don't mind, Cameron, I should like to have some time alone with my daughter."

"Of course, sir," Cameron responded, bowing slightly once more. "I'll be in my room if you need me for anything."

"Very good. Thank you."

The young man nodded, and then he looked at Marielle, taking her hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to it. "Enjoy your breakfast, Mademoiselle."

"Merci," the masked young woman replied, her voice almost a whisper because this gesture had once more made her breathless. She felt certain that no matter how many times he kissed her hand, she would never grow accustomed to it.

Cameron smiled at her briefly, then turned and exited the suite without another word to either his employer or his employer's daughter, the door closing with a _click_ behind him.

After several moments of studying the closed door with wonderment, Marielle rather abruptly turned toward Erik and made an inquiry of him which, in her own opinion, was rather bold.

"Why does he do that? Why does he pay so much attention to me?"

Erik arched his visible eyebrow at his daughter, feeling inclined to tell her that the Englishman obviously liked her. He still wasn't entirely sure of the young man's opinion of her, though, so he instead shrugged and gave the more obvious answer.

"He works for me. As such, he's expected to treat me with respect, as well as anyone who is close to me. Since you naturally fall under that category, he knows he should be polite so he doesn't offend you or me."

"That's what I thought," she replied with a sigh, unable to stop herself from feeling slightly disappointed. After all, the way he had been behaving had made her start to wonder whether or not he was actually interested in her and wasn't just being polite and attentive for the sake of keeping his job.

Hearing her father's response, however, had now led her to believe that such a conclusion was a rather ridiculous one. Why would he be interested in her? If he had any idea of what was underneath her father's mask, he surely suspected that she had a similar deformity … and no one would ever be interested in someone with a face like hers. And even if she were beautiful, it would be presumptuous to think that he would already be interested in her after having not even known her for twenty-four hours!

The masked man saw that she looked rather crestfallen and knew her thought process, but he didn't want to say anything to encourage her, lest he be wrong about his employee's feelings for her and only make her feel even more disappointed in the long run. He therefore suggested, "Let's have breakfast now. I'm sure you're hungry."

She nodded silently, then walked into the parlor and seated herself on the sofa. He sat next to her, at which point they each began serving themselves whatever they wanted from off the cart which one of the hotel butlers had brought to the suite at Erik's request.

For a considerable amount of time, father and daughter were silent as they ate and drank to their heart's content. It was during this time that Marielle also began looking around the suite, since she hadn't gotten much of a look at it the night before because she'd been absorbed in the fact that she'd found her father.

As she'd already gathered just from the night before, Erik's suite was grander than hers. From what she could see, however, it was relatively similar to hers except for several things. The entryway was much larger, he had a fireplace, and that strange-looking black object that she'd seen in his home underneath the Opera Populaire was in the suite as well.

Since the object was in his suite, Marielle could only conclude that her father knew what it was. After all, it would be rather unusual for him to have something in his room without knowing what it was, and besides, he was quite a bit older than she and had seen considerably more of the world than she had.

Once she'd finished drinking the cup of tea that she'd poured for herself at the beginning of the meal, she pointed toward the unusual item. "What is that?"

He arched an eyebrow at her because, at that moment, his back was to the object and he therefore didn't know what she was referring to. Then he turned toward where she was pointing, chewing on a piece of toast as he did, and studied it for several moments.

When he looked at her once again, he'd finished chewing his toast and looked completely surprised. "Well, that's a piano, of course."

"Oh." She felt her face grow how from embarrassment, for the way in which he'd responded made her sound as if she was completely ignorant and that, in fact, a piano was a rather common item. "What is it for?"

"What is it for?" he echoed incredulously. "What do you mean, _What is it for?_ It's an instrument; it's for playing music!"

"Music?"

Upon hearing that single-worded query, Erik felt his heartbeat slow down drastically, and in his mind he began to come to a dreadful conclusion, for there was only one way that any child of his _wouldn't_ know what music was. But that couldn't be…

"Yes, music." His voice almost quavered as he pondered upon his awful line of thinking.

She cocked her head to the right the slightest bit, the perfect picture of a curious, ignorant child. "What is music?"

Erik's heartbeat changed from going at a snail's pace to racing like a competitor in the Grand Prix de Paris. "… You don't know what music is?"

"No. I've never heard of it."

"You've never heard of music," the masked man echoed, his tone dull. On the inside, though, he was raging. If he ever saw Raoul and Christine deChagny again, it was likely that not only would he kill the Comte, but his wife as well! Marielle was twenty years old and knew nothing of music! _Nothing!_

"Well," he finally continued after several moments of rather tense silence, rising to his feet and walking over to the piano. His fingers floated over the keys for several moments. "Allow me to demonstrate for you."

He then pressed several keys at once, playing a perfect C Major chord, and she jumped in her seat in surprise, not having expected any sound to come from the piano.

"What was that?" she exclaimed.

"That was music. More specifically, that was a chord."

"A chord," she echoed, rising to her feet and coming to stand beside him with interest. "What is it?"

"It's where you play several different notes at one time. Generally, in a chord, you play notes that are unaltered, but sometimes you play notes that are sharp or flat alongside unaltered notes. Most of the time, chords that have unaltered notes are major chords and chords that have sharp or flat notes are minor chords."

For a moment, she was silent, and then she said rather plainly, "I didn't understand any of that."

Erik wasn't entirely sure how, but he managed to suppress a sigh. He had quite a lot of work to do. After all, he couldn't let his daughter go without music any longer! It was atrocious that she'd already gone so long without knowing anything about it; he wouldn't stand for her to remain in the dark anymore.

"Here, sit down," he instructed her then, and they both sat upon the bench which was before the piano. At the same time, he took a deep breath, inwardly attempting to brace himself for the challenge which would surely come with teaching music to someone who, a mere five minutes previously, hadn't even been aware of its existence.

~ o ~

"No, no; that wasn't right. Start from the beginning of the line on my count—one, two, three, play."

Several hours had passed; the clock on the mantle above the fireplace indicated that it was almost noontime. Both Erik and Marielle had ignored the time, however, because they had both been so absorbed in having Marielle learn how to play piano.

Truthfully, Erik was mildly astonished by Marielle's fast progress. Within the few hours during which he'd been instructing her, she'd gone from being completely ignorant as to what a piano even was to being able to play pieces that were of moderate difficulty. Due to the fact that she was both his and Christine's child and thus had a natural talent toward music that she hadn't even been aware of, he'd expected her to catch on in a relatively quick fashion—or, at least, as quickly as one could catch on after only learning about music that same day. But since the fact still remained that she'd never known anything about music before today, he certainly hadn't suspected that she would make as much progress as she had. Once he'd explained to her most everything he knew about piano-playing, however, she'd very nearly breezed through all the easy-level piano books that he possessed in the same fashion he had when he'd first learned to play piano as a child.

Of course, one who is on her first day of piano lessons can't logically be expected to play in a completely perfect fashion during the entire lesson, natural prodigy though she may be. Because of this, Marielle had stumbled in her playing several times—and was still doing so while playing the first movement of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_.

The first few times that his daughter had done something wrong in her playing, Erik had managed to show some patience. After all, she'd made so much progress in just a few hours that it was rather difficult to hold her mistakes against her, especially since he could tell that she was so excited to be hearing such marvelous sounds that her ears had never before beheld, so excited to be learning how to coax those sounds out of the piano herself. She'd said nothing on the topic, but the look on her face told him sufficiently what he had known would inevitably happen…

Marielle had fallen in love with music.

Unfortunately, in spite of these facts, Erik's lenience only extended so far. And as time had worn on, the masked man had become more frustrated with every error that his daughter made. He knew it was wrong to really be impatient with her; after all, it wasn't her fault that she hadn't known anything of music, much less how to make it perfectly, until several hours ago.

No, Erik's quarrel wasn't with Marielle—not really. He was more frustrated with the Comte and Comtesse deChagny than with anyone else. If they hadn't denied his child of music as they had, he wouldn't have had to teach her anything—nor would she be continually fumbling in her playing!

His thoughts were interrupted by hearing another jarring discord emitting from the piano—Marielle had missed yet another note.

"You missed it again!" he exclaimed in a tone more harsh than he'd really intended. "How many times have you played that now… five? Six?"

What was visible of the masked young woman's face reddened considerably. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Tourneau. It's just difficult—"

"No, it's not," he snapped in response, practically storming over the piano and playing the measure that she'd continually fumbled with ease. "See? Just like that."

"I'm sorry," she replied, her voice suddenly dropping to a whisper as she looked down at her hands, which she'd folded atop her lap. Understandably, his harsh manner was starting to upset her, but she was trying her best to conceal it. After all, she was certain that if their roles had been reversed, she would have wanted him to not be fumbling the same measure over and over.

"Just start from the beginning of the line like before," he said, letting out a rather huffy sigh. "And this time, do it right!"

Swallowing down a lump that had suddenly risen in her throat, she scooted forward on the piano bench slightly, placing her hands atop the keys which she was supposed to play at the beginning of the line. Then, keeping her eyes on the sheet music which was in front of her, she took a deep breath and started playing where he'd instructed her to.

Instead of halfway pacing about the way he had throughout most of the time that he'd been instructing her, he remained standing right behind her, continually shifting his rather stern gaze between the sheet music and her hands.

Unfortunately, Marielle was acutely aware that he was behind her; she could see his shadow hanging over part of the piano. And though she couldn't see his face, she could tell that he was observing her with a stern expression, just waiting for the next time that she did something wrong, just waiting for an opportunity to become frustrated with her once again.

For a minute or two, the young woman appeared to remain perfectly calm and detached, apparently indifferent to the fact that he was observing her so strictly—she even played the measure she'd continually fumbled without a single misstep. She only made it a few more measures, however, before becoming too nervous at the fact that he was standing behind her the way he was and thusly playing a wrong note.

"And now you played _that_ incorrectly!" he shouted suddenly, causing her to jump with alarm and stop her playing entirely. "That measure is even simpler than the one you spent all that time fumbling, and yet you can't even play that right!"

She didn't dare to look up at him; she was too afraid to see the rage which would surely be etched on his features. She instead kept her eyes on the piano keys, stammering, "I—I'm sorry, but… your hanging over me like that… i-it made me nervous."

"It damn well ought to!" he growled. "It should also motivate you to play correctly, but apparently it isn't producing that effect!"

Tears welled in her eyes and a lump rose in her throat, but she did her best to conceal them. "Well, we—we've been at this for several hours now. I'm getting tired—"

"So am I—I'm getting tired of having to correct your same errors over and over!"

"Well, I'm getting tired of hearing you yell at me!" she cried out suddenly, abruptly rising to her feet and looking him directly in the eye with surprising bravado. Tears were in her eyes. "I _hate_ it when people yell at me, especially when I'm only trying to do my best… and that's what I'm doing! I've never played this piece before; I never even knew what a piano was until a few hours ago! Yelling at me won't accomplish much of anything except to get me upset… but then again, you wouldn't really know that, seeing as how you didn't even know I existed until last night!"

These last words caused an entirely astonished expression to come to his masked features, but before he could give any kind of response, she burst into tears and practically fled from the suite.

Marielle heard her father call her name and follow after her, but she ignored him. She merely continued getting further away from him, only coming to a halt when she stepped into the hallway and nearly ran right into Cameron.

"Mademoiselle Tourneau!" the young man exclaimed, looking surprised to have come across his employer's daughter so abruptly—and to find her crying when he did. "What—What's the matter?"

"He keeps yelling at me!" she cried out, taking a deep, shuddering breath before letting out a few small sobs. "He's mad that I keep playing the song incorrectly and I'm just trying to do my best…"

Her voice trailed off then, at which point she covered her face with her hands and started crying even more.

"Oh." The expression on Cameron's face went to one of concern to one which was a mixture of sympathy and solemnity. He placed his hands on Marielle's shoulders, lightly squeezing them for a moment before softly running them up and down her arms in a gesture meant to be comforting. "Well, you two have been holed up in his room for hours; you probably need a break. I was just about to get some lunch… would you like to join me, perhaps?"

She removed her hands from her face, looking up at him and nodding while giving several pitiful-sounding sniffles. "Yes, that… that sounds rather good. I'm getting hungry, anyway."

"Perfect." He turned around so they were both facing the direction in which she'd been traveling before crossing paths with him, lightly resting a hand on her shoulder. "Let's get your cloak and then we'll be off."

After she nodded once more, they began taking the few more steps to her suite door. Upon glancing back, Cameron saw that Erik was standing in the hallway, looking at the two with an expression of remorse on his face—he apparently felt bad for having upset Marielle to such an extent. He then took a step or two forward, apparently with the intent of approaching his daughter and apologizing to her. Cameron then rather discreetly shook his head, however, holding up a hand in a gesture meant to signify that his employer should stop.

Upon seeing what Cameron was doing, Erik quit moving forward, then looked at the two for several more moments. Cameron shook his head a second time, telling Erik without words that it would likely be best if he let Marielle distance herself from him for a bit so she would have more of an opportunity to calm down. The masked man apparently agreed, for he let out a soft, resigned sigh before turning and retreating to his suite.

Two or three minutes later, Cameron and Marielle had been in and out of her suite and she had gotten her cloak, the hood of which she pulled over her head as they began walking out of Claridge's. The young woman was still sniffling a bit, although she wasn't really crying anymore.

"I'm sorry I'm subjecting you to this," she said to Cameron when they'd reached the sidewalk just outside Claridge's and had begun walking down the right side of the sidewalk. "I just really hate it whenever people yell at me. It doesn't do anything but get me upset."

"You don't need to apologize for anything," he reassured her, reaching inside the pocket of his pants and producing a clean handkerchief. "Here."

"Thank you," she replied, taking the handkerchief from him and blowing her nose. Then, assuming that he didn't want it back now, she held onto it with one hand as they continued walking. She let out a little sigh. "You must think I'm stupid to be crying about this."

He chuckled a bit. "Not at all; I know how you feel. Your father can be a little… overwhelming."

A small smile quirked at the corners of her lips, then her expression became serious once more. "I wasn't _trying_ to play incorrectly. All this music is just so new to me… I'd never even heard of it until this morning."

The Englishman raised his eyebrows. "You're Erik Tourneau's daughter and you only just learned about music today? What kind of life did you have before you came here that you didn't know anything about music?"

For a brief moment, she felt inclined to respond with "A terrible one, really," but then decided that she wasn't comfortable with sharing such a personal bit of information with him. She therefore remained silent. This led him to conclude that the young woman didn't want to discuss her past, and although he was curious, he wasn't going to be rude and prod her for answers.

"Well, at least you have a natural inclination toward musical talent," he thusly said after a few moments. "When I first started working for Monsieur Tourneau, he tried teaching me to play the violin because I'd wanted to learn all my life but never had. But unfortunately, I—"—he paused, a small chuckle escaping him as he shook his head—"I have absolutely no musical talent to speak of, something I only discovered the day your father tried teaching me. He kept yelling at me that my intonation was off and other such things that I didn't even really understand… and I tried to play correctly; I really did. But it wasn't meant to be, I suppose, and your father finally saw that and gave up after a few hours. It was a miserable experience for both of us."

She giggled for a few moments before clearing her throat and taking on an expression which was a bit more serious. "How long have you worked for my father?"

"Five years. I was a student and I was having a terrible time paying all the bills for school and living expenses and whatnot. One day, I saw an ad in the _Evening Standard_ for a very private man seeking an employee who would be required to do, well, everything the man asked. It said that one of the requirements was dependability, and I… well, honestly, I'd never categorized myself as much of a dependable person. But the ad promised really excellent pay, I'd applied to tons of other places and only gotten a few interviews that had ended in failure, and I was desperate. I was about to have to drop out of school because I didn't have the money for it."

"Didn't your parents have any way of helping you?"

"My parents weren't around anymore by that point. My father took off sometime when I was two or three and my mother died of typhoid about a year before I started university."

"Oh." Her face grew hot. "I'm sorry; I didn't know."

"That's right—you didn't know. So there's no need to apologize." He turned his attention to her with interest. "I obviously know your father is still alive, but what about your mother? Is she still in France?"

A lump rose in her throat at the mention of Christine, for thoughts of the Comtesse invariably led to thoughts of her husband. She didn't give any indication of discomfort, however, and instead replied in a noncommittal tone, "Yes, she and my stepfather are there, along with my half-siblings."

He nodded. "If it's not too much to ask… when were your parents ever married? I mean, your father's very private, but I never thought he would be so much so that he wouldn't even mention that he'd been married."

"Well, they never were married. So there was nothing of that sort to mention."

Upon hearing a somewhat hard edge in her tone, he started feeling concerned that he'd offended her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry; it's just that I'm really rather astonished to find that my employer has any kind of family. I'd gotten the impression that he was quite alone."

The young woman turned toward him in surprise. "You mean to tell me that there's never been anyone else? No wife, no children… nothing?"

"No—not any that he's mentioned to me, anyway."

"Oh." Marielle felt her heart being squeezed a bit at the prospect of her father not having anyone—for even though she'd largely been mistreated at the Château deChagny, she'd still had people that she could call family in an entirely accurate fashion, even if she'd never really been permitted to do so. "Well, he does seem to be a rather solitary person, anyway. So I suppose it's really not very surprising."

Cameron nodded in agreement, and then he took a deep breath through his nose before letting out a long sigh which seemed to be one of ecstasy. "Oh… do you smell that?"

She sniffed the air for a moment, at which point her mouth watered, for the scent of food being cooked at Henson's Fish and Chips filled her nose. "Yes, I do. It's Henson's!"

He looked at her with what appeared to be mild surprise. "You know about Henson's?"

"Yes! Oh, I love it… since I first ate there, fish and chips has become my favorite food!"

Upon hearing this declaration, his face broke into a wide grin. "It's my favorite, too—but only Henson's. Most every other fish-and-chips restaurant isn't very good, in my opinion."

"Could we go in?" she asked of him then. "I haven't gone in a few days."

The blond's smile widened a bit more. "I was planning on having us go there, actually. But now that you've told me you've been there and loved it, we're most certainly going now."

She returned his smile, and as they reached the door into Henson's, he opened it and held it open for him. She stepped inside and he followed after her.

"Good af'ernoon, you two!" the same man who had served Marielle when she'd first come to Henson's greeted the pair with a grin.

"Hello, Andrew," Cameron greeted the waiter, and the two stepped toward each other and shook hands. "How've you been?"

"Oh, I've been great, Mr. MacAlister, jus' great." Andrew then turned his attention to Marielle, his smile widening a bit more. "An' there's my lil' 'ooded friend! I was wonderin' where ya wen' off to."

Marielle returned his smile, although she felt reasonably certain he couldn't see it. "I wouldn't have left without one last meal here. But I'm staying here indefinitely now."

"Well, tha's wonderful!" Andrew exclaimed. Then he looked back toward Cameron. "Would you like your usual seat, Mr. MacAlister?"

"That would be good, thank you."

Andrew nodded, then motioned toward the same booth where Marielle had sat whenever she'd come to Henson's. "Go ahead and sit. I'll go t' the ki'chen and order your fish 'n' chips, and then I'll bring out your drinks in just a moment. Coca-Cola for both of you?"

"Yes," both Cameron and Marielle replied at the same time as they walked toward the booth, then glanced at each other in surprise.

"All right. I'll be back in a momen'."

Cameron and Marielle then went over to the booth, each of them sitting in the seat opposite the one in which the other sat. Upon seeing each of them do this so naturally, they both raised their eyebrows at each other.

"Do you always sit on the right side of whatever booth you sit at?" he asked of her, cocking his head slightly in a gesture of curiosity.

She smiled in a somewhat shy fashion. "Actually, I always sit at this booth. And yes, I sit on the right side all the time."

He returned her smile, although his smile was much wider than hers. "I always sit at this booth, too… and always on the left."

"Well, that's very interesting."

"Yes," he murmured. The smile on his face remained. "It… it's almost like we were anticipating this very moment, anticipating each other's eventual company."

Upon hearing him say this, her smile widened just a bit as she felt her heart warming. And in that moment, she suddenly felt as if he wasn't just being nice to her for the sake of pleasing her father and therefore keeping his job. After all, he had sounded sincere in his statement… and she didn't think he would have sounded sincere if he didn't actually like her, much less say it at all.

"How about you take off your hood?" he suggested after several moments, interrupting her thoughts. "You'd be a lot more comfortable, probably. And I can't see you nearly as well if you've got it on. I somewhat have to guess where your eyes are so I can at least think I'm looking into them."

Her face grew a bit hot. "Well, I… I've never taken it off when I've been in here. That man and everyone else who's served me have always been so nice… and I'm… well…"

Then her voice trailed off.

"You're afraid that they won't be so kind if they see your mask?" he inquired, his tone suddenly gentle.

She lifted her brow in surprise, though he couldn't see it. "How did you know?"

"Well, your father is often the same way." He paused, letting out a little sigh. At that moment, Andrew reappeared with their bottles of Coca-Cola, which he placed in front of them, earning him a nod of thanks from both of them. "He and I have known each other five years and only been in such a public setting like this, hmm… let me think… three times… maybe four."

"My father has only been out in public with you three or four times?" Her tone of voice indicated that she was obviously astonished. She picked up her bottle of Coca-Cola and took a sip from it.

"No, no; that's not what I meant. Of course we've been in public together more than four times, but it's generally walking from place to place… as in one rather private and secluded place to another. I mean that we've only been in a really public place, like a restaurant like this, only four times at most."

"Oh. I didn't think he would really be _that_ secluded."

The young man nodded in a rather solemn fashion. "He doesn't like being so exposed; he doesn't like risking having people look at him and make cruel comments about him… and other such things. He may act like he's very unflappable and doesn't let judgmental and unkind people get to him, but really… it's not true. He generally does a very good job of hiding it, but there are some times when he can't fool me."

"I see," she murmured, frowning a little. After a moment, however, she cleared her expression and looked back up at him. "Do—Do you know what my father looks like under his mask?"

"Yes; I've seen it a few times."

"And does it… bother you?"

"No. I mean…" He sighed a bit as he gave a light shrug. "It isn't the most attractive face in the world, but neither is mine. And I'm sure there are a relatively sizable number of people in the world who look worse than he does."

Upon hearing that he apparently didn't think his appearance ranked anywhere high as far as attractiveness was concerned, she raised her visible eyebrow. She refrained from making any kind of comment saying that he was wrong, however, because she didn't want to risk making him uncomfortable by complimenting his appearance.

Even though she didn't say anything in response to what he'd said, however, she decided that his statement had made her a bit more comfortable with the idea of having her hood off. And so, with a soft, deep breath, she took hold of her hood and slipped it off her head.

"There!" he exclaimed, sounding pleased. He smiled at her. "Now I can see you."

"All righ', you two," Andrew said as he reappeared with a plate of fish and chips for both Cameron and Marielle. "'Ere's your—oh!"

This exclamation was made as Andrew's eyes drifted to Marielle's face, which he was now seeing for the first time, and caught sight of her mask. Marielle noted, with a sinking heart, that his face had paled just a bit and he was gaping at her, apparently having completely forgotten that he had their food and needed to serve it to them.

"Is there a problem, Andrew?" Cameron demanded, emitting a huffy sigh as he folded his arms across his chest. Marielle glanced toward her companion with surprise, not having expected him to do such a thing.

"Well, I—no, Mr. MacAlister," the waiter replied anxiously. He then cleared his throat, setting the plates before Cameron and Marielle before beginning to quickly retreat to the kitchen. "I'll—I'll be back in a bi' t' check on ya. Holler if ya need anythin'."

After a few moments, Marielle lifted her eyes to Cameron's, grey-green meeting blue. "You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, yes, I did," the young man replied in a tone that seemed to be spiteful, but she knew the tone wasn't directed at her. He picked up his fork and started breaking apart his fish, allowing the steam to escape so the fish could cool off. "It's absolutely ridiculous that people would so change their behavior like that just because they see something they're not used to seeing. And after all, it's not as if any of them know what's under the mask. For all they know, you're an actress who needs to wear a mask for a part and you're just wearing the mask out and about to grow accustomed to it. But _no_, they don't consider that; they just assume the worst."

"They're right," the masked woman said softly, more to herself than to him.

"It doesn't matter whether or not they're right. They shouldn't act like that regardless." He gave another frustrated sigh. "It just infuriates me!"

At that point, Marielle could tell that he was becoming more and more aggravated by the second, and so she scoured her brain for a topic to which she could turn the conversation so he wouldn't think on the current situation any longer.

"You never finished telling me how you came to work for my father," she said after a moment. "You were saying that you didn't think you were dependable, but that you were desperate and so you applied to work for my father anyway, even though dependability was a requirement to work for him."

"That's right," he agreed with a nod, his expression softening from one to irritation to one which was calm. He paused, taking a bite of his cooled-off fish and chewing it, and she did the same. "I had an interview with your father about a week later. Of course, when I walked into the room where we were meeting and saw him for the first time, I was completely taken aback. I'd never seen anyone who wore a mask offstage before. I must have done a good job of hiding my surprise, though, because your father didn't seem irritated with me at any point while we were conducting the interview and I know for a fact that I didn't stare. He asked me questions about my work ethic, my schedule of availability, and other such things that are asked in an interview… but we talked a bit about personal things, too; he asked some about my life, although I didn't learn anything about his except for the fact that he was very private and needed someone who would be willing to do anything he needed at any point in time."

"And what happened then?"

"Well, by the end of the interview, I really felt drawn to your father, even though he and I had only known each other for about an hour. There was just… something about him; I don't really know what it was. But after that point, I really wanted to work for him—not only because I found him interesting, but because he'd told me just how good the pay was… a thousand pounds a week."

The young woman's eyes widened in astonishment. "Wow!"

"Yes. So when he asked me if I was dependable, I swore to myself that I would _become_ dependable and told him I was. And he hired me." Cameron smiled a bit. "And ever since, I've been working for him—and needless to say, I've learned to be extremely dependable. If I'm not around him, which I generally am anyway, he sends me a message that he needs me to do something for him and I immediately drop whatever I'm doing and go do what he needs."

She nodded. "And have you finished school, since you've obviously been earning the money to pay for it?"

"No, unfortunately not. I've been going on and off over the years, but I'm only about halfway through my degree."

"Only half? Why?"

"Well, I'd just barely started when your father hired me because I'd had to work at my previous job without additionally going to school for a long time in order to save the money for all my expenses. And like I said, if ever I'm not around your father and he sends for me, I drop whatever I'm doing and do whatever he asks because that's what dependability in this position calls for. He's called for me in the middle of a class more times than I can count, probably. So I'm absent from class more often than I am present, which naturally makes me flunk out."

Marielle frowned a little. "That doesn't seem fair. I mean, the whole reason you started working for him in the first place was so you could pay for school… and then he pulls you out of school so you can do whatever he wants."

The young man shrugged a bit. "I've gotten used to it. Your father's rather demanding… something I know you've already figured out."

"Yes," she murmured, her thoughts turning back to her piano lessons from earlier. "Yes, I've discovered that."

"It's not something he always does on purpose," he continued then. "It's just how he is. And I really don't mind it. I love working for your father; I wouldn't trade it for anything. The good most definitely outweighs the bad. You just have to learn to take it all in stride."

She nodded. "Do you think I overreacted to his yelling at me?"

"No. It's not something you're used to and he really can be frightening—although he doesn't always need to shout to accomplish that," he added as an afterthought. "He still makes me jumpy sometimes and I've known him far longer than you have."

A lump of jealousy rose in her throat at the thought that Cameron would always know Erik longer than she would no matter what, but she said nothing along that line of thinking. She instead let out a little sigh and said, "Well, maybe getting upset wasn't an overreaction. But the last thing I said to him, that he wouldn't know much of anything about me because he didn't even know about me until last night… it was out of line."

"That's true," he replied with a slight frown. Then, however, his face brightened a bit as he smiled reassuringly at her. "But you didn't mean it, really; you were just upset. As long as you apologize, it shouldn't really be an issue. And honestly, he's probably more frustrated with himself for upsetting you than he is with you for continually messing up or for saying what you did."

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so. He really despises it when he lets his temper get out of hand and it makes him upset someone. And since you're now the person closest to him because you're his family, he'll be even more bothered by it. So don't worry—whenever we finally go back to Claridge's, you'll both apologize, he'll promise that he'll try to do a better job of keeping his temper in check, and everything will be fine."

She nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. Then she gave him a shy, grateful smile. "You're very good at making people feel better—about themselves and, well, everything else. Or, at least, it seems that way."

"Well, I try," he replied modestly. Then he glanced at both their plates, seeing that they each had finished their lunches over the course of their conversation. "Are you ready to go back now or would you like to do something else?"

"I can't really think of anything else to do," she confessed with a light shrug. "So I suppose we should just go back. And after all, the sooner my father and I make up, the better, probably."

"You're probably right," he agreed, rising to his feet. She did the same as he pulled a small wad of pound notes out of his pocket and set them atop the table. "That ought to cover the bill and a decent tip. Let's go."

Without a word, she nodded and then followed after him as he began walking toward the door, making to put her hood on once more.

He saw what she was doing, however, and let out a little bit of a sigh. "You really don't need to do that. You were just in there without it on and there wasn't any real issue at all. If anyone out here tries to make any kind of comment or gives you some kind of look, I'll retaliate in whatever way I see fit."

The young woman's face grew hot. "You don't have to do that. Really, I'm used to having a least a little bit of a negative reaction to my appearance. I know other people find my mask unsettling."

"Other people are morons," he replied firmly. "Come on, now; it's not a very long walk back to Claridge's. Enjoy the feel of the sunlight actually falling on your face!"

For a moment, the pair stood right in the doorway of Henson's, he looking at her expectantly as she hesitated, uncertain of what to do. Then, however, she decided that if he was willing to be seen in public with someone who looked as she did, she could be willing to keep her masked face visible in public. She therefore gave him a little smile and shrugged a bit.

"All right. All right; I'll keep it off. Let's go."

Upon her saying this, he smiled back at her, offering his arm to her. "Yes, let's go."

As her smile widened a bit, she took his arm, at which point they began walking back in the direction of Claridge's.

In the initial part of their journey, they were silent, and Marielle was pleased to find that very few people gave any sort of visible negative reaction to her appearance—and those very few who did were rewarded with a glare from Cameron which made them shrink and hurry away, out of the pair's line of sight.

Once this had gone on for several minutes, she chanced a glance upwards, her eyes coming to rest on his handsome face. She only looked at him in secret for a moment, however, because he soon looked down at her in turn. When their eyes met, he gave her a warm smile which she shyly returned.

"See, isn't this nice?" he asked her then. "Don't you prefer this to walking about with your hood concealing your face?"

"Yes, I do," she agreed. "It's very pleasant."

He smiled at her a little more. "Well, anytime you feel inclined to do this again, don't hesitate to ask me. It'd be my pleasure to escort you on a walk any day, anytime—as long as your father doesn't already have me otherwise occupied."

She gave of sigh of ecstasy as she continued smiling up at him. "Thank you, Monsieur MacAlister—for everything you've done for me today. I… I can see why my father likes you as much as he seems to. You're a very good man."

"Thank you," he replied, beaming. "I'm glad you think so."

The two then glanced to their right to see that they were now right in front of Claridge's. He slid his arm out of her grip, stepping up to the front door of the hotel and opening it. He motioned her inside, and she stepped through the door with a nod of thanks. Then they ascended the staircase to the second floor, once again walking arm-in-arm to the door of Erik's suite.

Once Cameron had knocked on the door a couple of times, it opened to reveal Erik. Both young people noted that he looked somewhat remorseful; he apparently still felt bad for what had occurred earlier in the day.

"We're back," Cameron announced to his employer cheerfully, apparently trying to make sure that any tension which might be in the air dissipated. "We just had an excellent lunch at Henson's."

"Merci, Cameron," the masked man responded, giving the blond a nod of gratitude. He then turned his attention to his daughter, keeping his eyes on her as he continued speaking. "If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to my daughter alone."

"Of course, sir." Cameron turned toward Marielle, taking hold of her hand and pressing a kiss to it. "Thank you for joining me, Mademoiselle Tourneau. I enjoyed our time out together."

"So did I, Monsieur MacAlister," the young woman answered, smiling a bit. "Although you don't have to call me Mademoiselle Tourneau. You can just call me Marielle."

"I think it's too soon for such familiarity, unfortunately. I'll change my mind after a while, perhaps."

Marielle accepted this answer with a nod, then continued, "Well, thank you for all you've done for me today. I suppose I'll see you later on."

"You will."

After giving the masked woman a final kiss on the hand, Cameron briefly glanced back to his employer, at which point the two exchanged a brief nod. Then, without another word, the younger man turned and departed.

"Will you please come in?" Erik asked of his daughter after a few moments, at which point she turned her attention back to him and saw that he was motioning inside his suite.

She nodded silently, stepping inside the suite. He followed after her, closing and locking the door as she stood in the middle of parlor.

"Please… have a seat," the man said, motioning to the sofa, and she acquiesced. He joined her, letting out a somewhat heavy sigh. "Now, about earlier—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted before he had a chance to say anything else.

He lifted his visible eyebrow at her. "_You're_ sorry? What do you have to apologize for? Because if you're trying to apologize for fumbling—"

"No; I'm apologizing for saying what I did." She bit her lip in a gesture of anxiety. "You know… that you wouldn't really know anything about me because you didn't know I even existed until last night."

"Oh," he sighed. "That. Well, it hurt, but you were just lashing out. I'm sure you didn't really mean it. You don't seem like the type to say anything unkind with any real meaning behind it."

The young woman shook her head silently in order to signify that, indeed, she hadn't meant her hurtful words.

"Then you have no reason to apologize, really. I do, however." He paused, letting out another sigh. "I shouldn't have gotten so frustrated with you. It's not your fault that you kept stumbling at certain parts; everyone does that when they're learning a piece for the first time. I was frustrated that you didn't know _anything_ about piano-playing, much less music, more than anything else. But it wasn't fair to take it out on you; it's obviously not your fault that you've been kept in the dark all your life. And especially considering that you didn't know anything about music at all until today, you really have made incredible progress. In just a few hours, you went from not even knowing what music was to being able to play piano pieces which require a moderate level of skill… and that's saying something."

She didn't give any kind of response. She merely looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I'm proud of how much progress you made today," he informed her solemnly. "Very, _very_ proud. I should have told you that alongside giving you constructive criticism; I shouldn't have snapped at you the way I did… especially since I should have known that you would be particularly sensitive to any kind of harsh treatment, considering what you went through when you lived with the deChagnys. So I'm sorry. From this point on, I'll be sure to be both encouraging and constructive. Tearing you apart won't help."

At this, she nodded. "Thank you. And I accept your apology."

He smiled at her. "I'm glad. Now, are you at all interested in continuing where we left off? We don't have to keep working on _Moonlight Sonata_ if you don't want; we could try something else and come back to that some other time if you'd like."

"Hmm…" She bit her lip thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, there was something Monsieur MacAlister mentioned earlier and I didn't know what it was, but I didn't want to make myself sound stupid, so I didn't say anything about it to him."

"Oh? Well, tell me what he mentioned and I can enlighten you."

"What's a violin?"


	10. Chapter 9: Changes

_**In Blood**_** by LovetheScottishAngel**

**Author's Note: Thanks to IAmTheMaskYouWear and The Duelist's Heiress for reviewing. Additional thanks goes to ArviaLee for putting this story on alert.**

**Additionally, I want to apologize for being a freakin' week late on this update. Believe me, I'm more mad at myself than you are at me. I kind of fell off the wagon as far as keeping up was concerned, as you can see by the fact that the last update and this update were both late. I don't mean to keep y'all waiting; I hate having to wait forever for an update on stuff I read, which is why I update as regularly as I do, but obviously I've failed in my consistency these past couple of weeks. But from this point on, I'm really going to try my absolute best to keep to my updating schedule of updating every two weeks.**

**Anyway, without further ado…**

**~ o ~**

For the next month and a half, Erik continued to teach Marielle about music. In that time, she became so talented in playing the piano, the violin, and the cello that it was scarcely believable that she hadn't even known what music was before meeting Erik. She also learned how to play various other instruments, including the flute, the clarinet, and the viola—but she wasn't as interested in them as she was in the three instruments in which she was most talented, so she got herself to a moderate level of talent and then stopped paying them much attention.

During this time in which Erik had instructed his daughter, he had come to the realization that, if she really wanted, she could surpass him in musical talent in spite of the fact that she'd spent the vast majority of her life being completely ignorant to music's existence. She had an even better knack for picking up instruments and understanding them rather quickly than he'd had at her age, and he'd obviously been far more experienced with music than she when he'd been twenty. This fact made him all the more frustrated with the fact that the deChagnys had deprived Marielle of music the entire time she'd resided with them—for if they had let her know of music at an early age as they should have, she surely would have already been more talented than he when it came to music.

As the masked man pondered upon all these things one day, he was sitting on the sofa in his suite, watching Marielle play Ravel's _Gaspard__ de la__ nuit_. Whenever he wasn't instructing his daughter so she might improve her skill on some instrument, she played on the piano while he watched her—and while the young woman was absorbed in making music, falling all the more in love with it all the while, her father would be absorbed in observing her.

Erik's favorite part of watching Marielle play an instrument was how happy she looked whenever she was playing. Sometimes she would smile the biggest smile he had ever seen on anyone, sometimes she would let out a sigh of ecstasy and close her eyes—and sometimes she wouldn't do deliberately anything to give away her happiness, instead keeping a straight face… but he could tell she was happy because her face naturally glowed whenever she made music.

Seeing the masked young woman in this way made Erik insanely jealous of Raoul and Christine for having had her for so long without ever letting him know that he had a daughter—and angry with them for not doing much of anything to make her happy, for it was plain to him that Marielle had spent most of her time in the Château deChagny being miserable. Whenever he thought about how much his child had endured before braving the world on her own so she might find him, a thirst for bloodshed and vengeance that he hadn't had in years rose within him, and he wanted to give Raoul deChagny a slow, painful death as payback for all the nobleman had done to his daughter…

In truth, Erik hadn't ever anticipated feeling a sense of such vengeful protectiveness for, well, anyone. Because he felt a fatherly fondness for Cameron that he would likely never admit to feeling, he felt reasonably certain that if anything bad ever happened to the young man, he would deal with the young man's tormentors very harshly—but there was still something of a question as to whether or not he would, while no such thing existed where Marielle was concerned.

There had been a time when Erik Tourneau had only truly loved one person… and during that time, he had felt that he would never love anyone as much as he had loved her. But for the better part of the month and a half that Marielle had been with him, he had loved her—and his love for her was far more intense than what he'd felt for Christine. He himself was astonished by how overwhelming his feelings of paternal love were, for no one had ever told him that one's capacity for love increased a hundredfold whenever one became a parent... but he was savoring every moment of it, dreading the day when would she grow bored with his company and decide to travel, for he was sure that one day his daughter would want to see the world and that she most certainly wouldn't want to take her reclusive, aging father with her.

Of course, he hadn't made his feelings known to his daughter. After all, they had only known each other for a month and a half. It was therefore likely that she didn't yet return his sentiments—and perhaps she never would; he wasn't sure how difficult it was for one to love a parent who had never been present, even if such a thing wasn't that parent's fault. Certainly she liked him, but for all he knew, that was the furthest her feelings for him would ever go. And if she didn't return his feelings, it was possible that his confessing his own sentiments would scare her off; she might feel that a month and a half of knowing someone was too soon to be feeling any kind of love.

His thoughts were somewhat cut short when Marielle finished the song. She then glanced over at him, her face still shining from the ecstasy which music brought her.

"Well?" she inquired of him. "Was that good?"

Erik very nearly chuckled, for the slight glint in the young woman's eye told him that she knew perfectly well that she'd played well—she just wanted the satisfaction of hearing him compliment her. He therefore indulged her and responded with a smile, "Yes, I thought it sounded perfect. Like I've told you before, you could go onto any concert stage tomorrow and become an overnight sensation, playing like that."

She beamed at him, then made to turn her attention back to the piano. "Should I play something else for you?"

The masked man briefly scanned his daughter up and down, seeing that she was still wearing the maids' clothing she'd worn at the Château deChagny. It was then that he knew a moment of guilt; he'd told her when they'd first met that they would go shopping the first full day of being together, but then they'd become distracted by having her learn the piano. And every day that had passed since that point, they'd started the day with the full intention of going into town and buying her some new clothing… but they'd always gotten distracted by having her learn more about music. And in fact, they hadn't even discussed shopping today… Erik had instead contemplated the possibility of starting her on voice lessons today, for he felt entirely certain that she still didn't know a thing about singing and he was eager to find out just how talented she would surely be at singing once she'd had some training.

Upon thinking about how she was wearing the same shoddy clothing she'd worn during her old life in Paris, he suddenly came to a decision that he was no longer going to let her wear attire which surely carried bad memories with it. He therefore rose to his feet and said, "No. Get your cloak; we're going to go shopping."

Marielle lifted her visible eyebrow. "Shopping? But I thought we were going to do more with music."

"Well, I've changed my mind for the moment." He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was already half-past one. "If we're not out too terribly long, we'll do some when we come back—if you feel up to it then, of course."

She shrugged and rose to her feet, a slight smile coming to her face. "You know how I've been ever since you started teaching me, Monsieur Tourneau, so you must know that I'll certainly feel up to doing more music."

"You know, you don't have to be so formal with me," he said suddenly as she walked over to the nearby coat rack and collected her cloak, pulling it on over her shoulders. "I am your father, after all. I mean, if you don't feel comfortable addressing me with a more familiar title, that's all right. I'm just saying you won't offend me if you call me Erik or…"

His voice trailed off then, but she knew what he had intended to say, although she didn't know why he had hesitated to say it. Feeling suddenly bold, she therefore prompted, "Or Father?"

Upon hearing the mere word "father" on her lips, which he hadn't heard from her in any context over the month and a half in which they had known each other, he felt his heart warming a little, and he smiled as he responded softly, "Yes, or Father. But like I said, I'll understand if you still feel that you need to be formal with me. After all, we've only known each other a little over a month."

She lightly bit her lip in a thoughtful fashion for a moment. Then, however, she returned his smile and said in an equally soft tone, "Well, I suppose I could give it a try… Father."

At the sound of her actually calling him "Father," his smile widened and he suddenly felt as if his heart would burst. And in that moment, he wanted her to call him "Father" with each new sentence which she spoke to him.

Once this had gone on for a moment or two, the masked man cleared his throat and straightened himself, his expression becoming more serious as he collected his cloak and hat from the coat rack. "Well, let's be on our way, shall we?"

Without a word, she nodded in agreement, and as he pulled on his cloak and hat, they exited the suite. Just a few moments later, they ran into Cameron.

"Ah, hello, Monsieur Tourneau," the young man greeted his employer with a smile, not having seen him since that morning. He then turned his attention to Marielle, his smile widening the slightest bit. "Hello, Mademoiselle Tourneau."

Marielle smiled rather shyly as Erik noticed what was visible of her face turning slightly pink—even after a month and a half of knowing Cameron, she was still a bit shy with him. "Hello, Monsieur MacAlister."

Cameron smiled at her for a few moments more, then looked back at Erik. "You two are about to head out, then?"

"Yes," Erik agreed, giving a brief glance toward the maids' dress Marielle was wearing. "It's high time Marielle got some new clothing. We shouldn't be gone too terribly long."

"Take your time," Cameron replied with a shrug. "When you come back, though, we need to discuss the travel arrangements."

"Right." Erik offered his arm to Marielle, and as she took it, they began walking toward the nearby staircase. He gave a brief wave to Cameron. "We'll see you when we get back."

"All right," the Englishman replied, waving back. "Enjoy yourselves!"

Without saying anything else to Cameron, the Tourneaus continued on their way, exiting Claridge's and beginning to walk down the right side of the sidewalk. It was at that point that Marielle turned to her father.

"What was Monsieur MacAlister talking about when he was discussing travel arrangements?"

The masked man gave his daughter a brief glance. "I was thinking about leaving London, going elsewhere… and maybe not just one place, but several different places—you know, for a little bit of a vacation."

"Oh." Her face fell. "And you were just going to leave me here?"

"No, of course not!" Erik protested indignantly. "I wouldn't abandon you when you came to London for the sole purpose of finding me. I was only planning on leaving if you wanted to go with me—or if you preferred to stay in London by yourself while I went elsewhere. Like I said, it was only a thought."

Marielle let out a slight sigh of relief. "Oh. I thought maybe you were growing tired of me."

"Certainly not," he said with a chuckle. "I enjoy your company more than I can possibly explain. Truly, this past month and a half with you has been… wonderful."

Her whole face brightened, and she breathed, "You really mean that, Father?"

Upon hearing her call him "Father" again, this time in a completely natural fashion, a surprisingly wide smile came to his face. Then he responded, "Yes, I really mean it. It's been such a pleasure to get to know you, to instruct you in music… to spend time with you at all."

She returned his smile, squeezing his arm a bit. "I'm glad I came to London and found you here."

Erik placed a hand atop hers, applying gentle pressure as his smile remained on his face. "So am I."

Father and daughter looked at each other fondly for several more moments, and then she turned her attention forward to see that they had made their way to Brompton Road. Her eyes fell upon a rather sizable building, and upon looking at the sign, she found that she was looking at a store called Harrods.

"Ooh," she murmured in a rather awestruck tone, her grey-green eyes widening. She pointed toward the store. "Could we shop _there?_"

"Sure," Erik replied with a shrug, and he started walking them toward the store. "I have credit there and I'm probably one of their best-paying customers. Maybe we'll even be given a discount since they're so familiar with me."

The masked young woman bit the inside of her cheek momentarily. "Is it rather expensive?"

"Yes," her father admitted. "It's certainly one of London's more high-end shops."

"Well…" Marielle looked at the store with longing as they continued walking toward it. "We don't have to shop there, then. You don't need to be spending so much money on me."

He sighed a little. "Marielle, when are you going to understand that money is no object to me? I have a consistently large income and, until recently, I only ever paid for myself—and Cameron, on some occasions. And after all, you're my daughter. I'm more than willing to spend any amount of money on you—as long as I can afford it, which I can."

For a moment or two, she looked as if she was going to protest, but then she let out a little sigh and shrugged. "Well, all right. As long as you're sure… because we can easily go to a less expensive shop and probably find some things that I'll enjoy."

"That won't be necessary."

Erik and Marielle then arrived at the front door of the ladies' department of the store, at which point he broke away from her to open the door. He motioned her inside, at which point she gave him a nod of thanks and stepped inside the store.

Almost immediately after arriving inside the store, there was a moment in which Marielle sincerely believed that she had died and gone to Heaven. Seeing as how she'd only ever owned two dresses at a time, the young woman hadn't considered herself to be very interested in fashion—and truthfully, she hadn't been; when Erik had brought up the idea of shopping for new clothes, she'd felt largely disinterested, for she'd been perfectly happy with her simple maids' dresses.

Upon seeing all the dresses, shoes, and jewelry which now surrounded her, however, she felt herself rapidly becoming interested in expanding her wardrobe—and expanding it to such an extent that she would no longer give any thought to the black dresses she'd worn throughout her entire life.

"Well?" Erik inquired, an amused smile spreading across his face upon seeing his daughter's wonderstruck expression. "Where would you like to begin?"

She rather slowly turned to face him, her eyes wide. Then she breathed in a tone which almost sounded overwhelmed, "I—I don't know."

He chuckled, then briefly glanced around the store. "Well, I suppose we ought to get you some new dresses first. After all, you'll want your shoes and jewelry to match whatever dress you're wearing."

Marielle didn't need to be told twice. Without a word to her father, she practically charged over to the dresses, beginning to sift through the racks and pull out dresses that she wanted to try on. He joined her, watching with amusement as her arms quickly became full to the point where she could barely hold onto what she'd collected.

When her arms became full to such an extent that she was beginning to drop dresses onto the floor, it became clear that she needed assistance, for she was still digging through the dress racks with vigor—and it looked as if she wasn't going to stop doing so anytime soon.

"Would you like me to hold some of that?" he therefore offered, at which point he was almost immediately assaulted by the large load of dresses which she shoved into his arms.

Once he'd recovered from having an onslaught of dresses practically thrown at him, he watched her continue to unearth new dresses that she wanted to try on and chuckled to himself.

_It seems that she's a typical woman, after all_, he thought. _She's only ever worn one type of dress all her life, but she apparently loves to shop. Strange, seeing as how she hasn't seemed very interested in going shopping… but then again, why would she? It's not as if she's ever shopped before, anyway._

"All right," his daughter announced then, breaking into his train of thought. She turned toward him, holding a load of dresses equal to the one which he held, and he saw that her face was flushed and her eyes were shining with excitement. "I'm ready to try these on."

"Then let's head over to the dressing room," he replied, nodding toward the closest set of dressing rooms. "You do realize, though, that you won't be able to take all of these in with you at one time."

She looked completely astonished, which, he supposed, shouldn't have surprised him. After all, this was only her first experience with shopping; she wouldn't have any knowledge that dressing rooms had a limit for how many articles of clothing you could take into your room at one time.

"I won't?" she inquired then, and he noted with further amusement that she was beginning to look and sound rather crestfallen.

"No. They only want you to take so many pieces of clothing with you at a time." He paused momentarily. "Don't worry, though; you'll just take in as many as you can at one time and I'll hold onto all the rest. And whenever you get done with one set, I'll give you a new set… and we'll keep going until you've tried on everything you want to try on."

Her face brightened at this. "All right. Then let's go."

Then, without another word, she turned and began walking in the direction of the dressing room. He followed after her, returning to his tickled thoughts from earlier.

_It looks as if she's going to become a clothes horse rather quickly. I'll have to look into getting a credit limit at all the shops where I have credit… otherwise my money may be in danger after all!_

"Hello," the woman working at the dressing room greeted Marielle as she sorted through clothes that previous customers had decided they didn't want to purchase—she had heard Marielle approaching, thus why she knew she was there without looking. "How may I help you today?"

"I'd like to try on all these dresses," Marielle responded, nodding to both the dresses in her arms and those which Erik was holding. A small smile then quirked her lips. "I'm afraid I've got quite a lot, so I'll probably be here a while."

"That's all right, ma'am," the woman replied, at which point she finally turned and looked at Marielle. And upon seeing Marielle's mask, her face paled a little and she swallowed rather hard. "O-Oh."

Behind Marielle, Erik frowned, but Marielle chose to ignore the woman's reaction and held up the dresses she was holding onto slightly. "How many things am I allowed to take in at one time?"

"Only nine." The woman scanned Marielle up and down with sudden contempt, apparently taking note of the rather shoddy dress the masked young woman was wearing. "Are you sure you want to try on so many dresses, ma'am? These are all rather expensive, you know."

Marielle arched her visible eyebrow at the woman in surprise, feeling somewhat astonished that the woman would assume that she would be trying on dresses if she didn't have some means of paying for it. And that was when Erik intervened, stepped forward and saying in a rather huffy tone, "I have a credit account here at the store. I'll be more than able to pay for anything my daughter wants to purchase."

The woman's eyes widened. "Monsieur Tourneau! F-Forgive me, I didn't know—"

"That this was my daughter?" Erik sneered. "Is the resemblance so _lacking_ that you couldn't take a guess, mademoiselle?"

"Well, I—I mean that…" The woman trailed off, then swallowed hard once more, picking up a sheet of paper with the number _9_ printed on it and handing it to Marielle.

"Here you are, Mademoiselle Tourneau," she then addressed Marielle. She brought an empty rack to the Tourneaus and motioned to it. "You can put all your extra attire on that rack so it won't be so difficult to manage. And once you're done with your first nine, you can come back and collect another nine, and so on and so forth until you've tried on everything you've got."

"Much better," Erik huffed, taking rough hold of the rack and beginning to hang the dresses he was holding onto it. He made a dismissive gesture toward the woman, his eyes narrowing at her. "Now go away before I see you fired for your rudeness."

The woman's eyes widened in alarm, and then without another word, she slunk away. Erik looked after her with a hard expression, and when she was out of his line of sight, he turned back to Marielle and shook his head with a sigh.

"Ridiculous," he grumbled. "I spend thousands of pounds in here every year and the employees can still be so _rude_."

Marielle bit the inside of her cheek momentarily. "Does everyone who works here know you?"

"I daresay. Masked men aren't very common, you know, so if one comes into the store, word gets around." He let out another sigh. "It's one thing if they're rude to me; I can handle that without much of an issue. But if they're rude to _you_… well, it just infuriates me. I hate to see anyone that I care about getting mistreated."

Her heart warmed upon hearing this. "I'm sure it won't happen again."

"Yes, I'm sure I put that woman in her place." He paused for a moment, then motioned to all the dresses she was still holding. "Anyway, enough about that. I'm sure you're eager to try on all these dresses."

She nodded fervently in agreement, hanging up the dresses she was holding until she only had nine in her arms. Then, making sure she had the sheet of paper the woman had given her, she began walking into the dressing room. "I'll be back in a little bit."

Erik nodded in turn, seating himself in a nearby chair while letting out a long sigh. All the while he willed himself to get comfortable, for he felt certain that if the large number of dresses his daughter was going to try on was any indication, they would be at Harrods for a long time.

~ o ~

Five hours, twenty-eight dresses, seventeen pairs of shoes, ten pieces of jewelry, six coats, five hats, two nightgowns, and 9,422 pounds placed on Erik's credit account later, Marielle had finished shopping at Harrods. She and Erik were on their way back to Claridge's so they might put all her newly-purchased attire away and then order dinner from room service. Cameron was also with them, for about halfway through the shopping trip, Erik had realized that Marielle was going to end up purchasing more than he and his daughter would be able to carry by themselves—and so he had used Harrods's telephone to call Cameron's suite and request that his employee join them at the store.

Most of the time, Erik would have balked at having just spent nearly ten thousand pounds on clothing and accessories—for although he had a lot of money and somewhat-expensive taste, he'd never spent that much money in one sitting when it came to clothes. But Marielle had been so excited to find so much that she liked, she'd never had much of anything in her entire life, and he knew that she would wear every bit of what had been purchased today for a long time—and additionally, she had acted visibly guilty and even tried to put some items back when all the purchases had finally been rung up and the woman at the counter had announced the total amount of the bill. He therefore held nothing against her for having spent so much money on her.

It was during this particular moment in time that Erik discovered yet another reason why he loved Marielle—she hated the fact that such a large amount of money had just been spent solely on her and was making that known, was trying to reconcile the situation even though it didn't need to be reconciled. She was trying to make sure that she wasn't a burden on him.

"If I'd known that everything would end up being _that_ expensive, I would have had us shop elsewhere," she informed him as they continued walking toward Claridge's. "But I didn't think to look at the price tags… I didn't really even know what price tags were until today, so I didn't give them any thought."

Erik chuckled and shook his head. "It's really not a problem. If I'd been concerned about spending a lot of money, I wouldn't have had us go there."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I love everything I got," she informed him, a smile starting to spread across her masked face. "It's all so beautiful!"

Her father smiled. "I'm glad you think so."

She smiled back at him. Then, suddenly feeling bold as she had earlier when she'd first brought up the prospect of calling him Father, she moved closer to him while still walking. At that point, she slowed her pace just a bit to make sure she wouldn't hurt herself nearly as badly if she tripped and fell while placing a light peck to his unmasked, undeformed cheek.

The masked man felt as if his heart would nearly explode, and he tried not to sound breathless with sudden exhilaration as he looked at her and inquired, "What was that for?"

"To thank you for being willing to spend so much money on me," she explained with a soft smile. "And to thank you for everything you've done for me in the past month and a half. You didn't even have to accept me as your daughter; you could have denied me and there wouldn't have been much I could do about it. But you took me in right from the start and… and now I know what it means to feel like I belong somewhere, to feel like I have a home… to have a family."

As she had gone on, tears had started forming in her eyes, and her voice had started to become thick with emotion. By the end of her statement, she was so very nearly undone that she could barely speak. Erik found himself unable to remain indifferent in the face of such emotion, for a lump was rising in his throat and he could feel tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes.

Marielle then let out a rather deep, shuddering breath in order to get better control of her emotions, clearing her throat and blinking rapidly several times. Then, looking back up at him, she made her conclusion.

"Being with you has been more wonderful than I ever could have imagined."

"Oh, chérie," he sighed, his voice rather husky with emotion as he held onto what of her clothing he had in his possession with one hand and wrapped the other arm around her shoulders. Then he pulled her in closer, pressing a firm kiss to the top of her head while she pressed her face against his shoulder. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. I feel the same way, truly."

In that moment, Cameron, who had been walking ahead of the father-daughter pair, happened to glance backwards in order to ensure that his employer and employer's daughter were keeping up with him. When he saw the half-embrace they were in while continuing to walk, a smile spread across his features. He knew that the two had been so happy in each other's presence during the month and a half in which Mademoiselle Tourneau had been in his and Erik's lives, and he was glad to know that they were growing closer. Seeing his employer happy made him happy as well, especially while knowing without really being told that the Frenchman had endured a lot of misery in his lifetime.

Once the Tourneaus had remained holding onto each other while still walking for a few minutes more, they finally broke apart. Erik didn't cease the physical contact, however; he placed his still-free hand atop one of Marielle's shoulders and lightly squeezed.

Then, without giving much thought to it, he murmured warmly, "I love you."

She drew in her breath rather sharply, looking up at him with widened eyes. "You—you what?"

Upon hearing her response, he suddenly realized that he'd spoken aloud, which he hadn't really intended to do. But since he had and she'd heard him, there was no point in denying what he'd said. He suddenly didn't really care whether or not she thought it too soon for him to love her—he wanted her to know how he felt.

"I love you," he informed her again, moving a hand from her shoulder and into her hair, at which point he ran his fingers through it. "I love you, Marielle."

Her grey-green eyes started to sparkle. "You really mean that, Father?"

"Of course I do," he replied with a contented sigh, smiling down at her. "You're my daughter, after all—and even if that wasn't the case, how could I not love you? You're talented, you're smart, and you have an incredibly contagious sense of enthusiasm—oh!"

Erik's explanation of why he loved his daughter was cut short in that moment, for she practically threw down all the boxes and bags she'd been carrying and threw her arms around him, causing him to drop everything he'd been holding as well. She hugged him so tightly that he very nearly thought she would squeeze all the air out of his lungs, but he didn't particularly mind. All that mattered in that moment was that his daughter knew how he felt—and she obviously didn't have any issue with it.

"And I love you," she breathed as she pressed her face into his shoulder and breathed in the scent of his cologne. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Once he'd heard this from her, he returned her embrace with even more fervor, practically crushing her against him. And in that moment, he suddenly felt as if the life he'd had before meeting Marielle very nearly meant nothing anymore. It didn't matter that he'd spent most of his life all alone, hoping for a love that would surely never be, committing crimes left and right until he'd cut himself off from the world almost entirely. All that mattered now was that he was a father; he now felt as if his sole purpose in life was to be the father this extraordinary young woman deserved…

His thoughts were interrupted by the feel of her pulling away from him, but she kept hold of his arms while looking up at him. He did the same while continuing to look at her.

"If you decide to leave London, I'll come with you," she declared. "I like it here well enough, but I probably never would have come here if not for you. And even if I had come here without you, now that I've found you, I don't want to be away from you very long. So if you choose to leave, I'll go wherever you go."

Erik beamed at her. "I would love that."

She smiled back at him, and after he'd placed another kiss to the top of her head, she moved away from him and collected the items she'd dropped when she'd gone to embrace him. He picked up his dropped items as well, and then they continued walking toward Claridge's. Cameron walked ahead, apparently completely unaware of the moment the pair had just shared—though, unbeknownst to them, he had seen it all, for he'd looked back when he'd heard Marielle drop her items.

For a few minutes, father and daughter walked together in silence, merely enjoying being in one another's presence, while Erik thought more about the young woman walking next to him.

Until a month and a half previously, he hadn't had any inkling that he was a father. Of course, he understood why that was now; Christine had lied to her husband about the way in which Marielle had been conceived. And because of that, his daughter had experienced more misery than most people twice her age even imagined enduring. As her father, he felt it was his duty to protect her from further harm—and more than that, to try righting the wrongs which had occurred in her past, which meant making those who had committed crimes against her see the error of their ways…

"Marielle," he prompted then, and the masked young woman looked up at him. "What would you think about going back to Paris?"

**~ o ~**

**Author's Note: Eh… this chapter isn't nearly as good as some of my other ones, I don't think. I had this idea that it was going to be an epic chapter… but that didn't really happen. I guess it's because I got desperate to get it up and I also didn't know how to go about writing the chapter as well as I wanted to. There were quite a few times when I just got… stuck.**

**I also anticipated that the chapter would be longer, but the only real way that would have happened would have been if I'd written about all of Marielle's shopping… and since I wasn't really interested in going through exactly how Marielle spent almost ten thousand pounds, I didn't put it. I also could have written about Marielle having her very first voice lesson, but I'm saving that for later and it'll be much better.**

**Regardless of all this, though, I hope you enjoyed the chapter.**

**Reviews are love! (Unless they're inexplicable flames.)**


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